The Professor
by J Wombat
Summary: Jacob's got a thing for his new math teacher... but that's only the beginning of his problems. The secret she's hiding could expose them all. FINAL chapter up!
1. One

Howdy all! I've decided to do some substantial revamping - data, characteristics, physical traits, origins, you name it - and I sincerely hope you bear with me while I try to rework my story.

Summary: Jacob's got a thing for his new math teacher... but that's only the beginning of his problems. The secret she's hiding could expose them all. Revised and begun anew! Please review, and Merry Christmas!

I am ridiculously open to reviews; this story just presented itself to me, and I'll be in dire need of suggestions in the very near future. I want input - what you would like to see happen, what you'd like to see more of, less of, none of; everything. The story will be third person, although the character focus will shift at times. And for further notice, Bronte should be spelled Brontë. Happy reading.

Note: I began this story before the release of Breaking Dawn, and ergo will only be quasi-Breaking Dawn compliant.

* * *

One;

A small television sat atop a cardboard box marked "kitchen," attempting fruitlessly to produce an image through the black and white static. On the other side of the empty living room, a dented microwave hummed therapeutically while its contents spun, burning for thirty-one more seconds. There were no tables, no chairs, only boxes; some were open, others not, with an abundance of white packing peanuts and bubble wrap littering the floor.

The doorbell rang, a cheery ding-dong followed by a curt rapping on the front door. Bronte answered.

"Good evening, Miss Fischer."

"Good evening, Officer Swan."

"You can call me Charlie."

"Bronte."

Bronte noted Charlie was off-duty; he had donned a pair of faded jeans and an old fishing cap worn at a rakish angle. He smiled a little.

"I came by to see how you were doing moving in." Bronte opened the door completely and ushered him inside. She chuckled, and her light mood filled the room.

"It's been nearly a month, and I'm still living out of boxes."

"You need any help?" She laughed again.

"I need a miracle." Charlie laughed back. The microwave dinged loudly, and they both glanced at the metal appliance sitting impatiently on the floor, the LED proudly displaying "End" while the interior light flashed. The slice of pizza within smoked, the greater portion of its body charred and burnt. Charlie cleared his throat to break the silence.

"Well I was just about to step out with a friend of mine to get some Chinese."

;

Bronte sat at a table with Charlie and a man introduced to her as Billy Black. She tried the alliteration on her tongue, and decided she rather liked the wise man with the laugh lines sitting across from her. He had a genial manner, and a way of knowing exactly what was in your head before you even thought it. Despite being wheelchair-bound, the old Indian seemed surprisingly mobile and complacent about his lifestyle. Bronte chewed thoughtfully on shrimp fried rice and eggrolls while tuning in and out of Charlie's and Billy's conversation; they were planning their next fishing trip. Her eyes drifted to the sage wallpaper and the fish tank in the corner, the gargling of the pump filling her ears. The jolly, fat goldfish swam about inside, blissfully unaware of life outside its ten-gallon tank. Their large, dumb eyes looked unseeing into the room, calling her faintly. Bronte. Bronte…

"Bronte."

Bronte started. "Dreadfully sorry, what was that?"

Billy's raspy voice spoke to her. "Charlie says you're having a hard time moving in."

"Oh," she said, fidgeting with the end of her napkin. "I need to buy new furniture; I sold everything with my last home."

Charlie offered to take her to Port Angeles the following weekend, so that she might peruse the furniture stores; Billy caught Bronte's eye, giving her a look that she didn't quite understand; regardless, she gratefully obliged. Billy volunteered his son, Jacob, and his friends to do any manual labor necessary.

"Isn't Jacob going to be in calculus this year, Billy?" Charlie asked.

"I believe so," Billy replied.

"He should be one of your students then, Bronte."

"Then let me apologize in advance," Billy began," for any of my son's misconduct." The table dissolved into lighthearted laughter.

;

Outside on the sidewalk, Charlie walked ahead down the street toward the car. Billy rolled along, keeping Bronte's pace, chatting idly. The conversation turned shortly.

"Thank you for allowing Charlie your company to Port Angeles."

Bronte's smile slipped. "I don't understand."

Billy sighed. "Charlie has been having a rough time dealing with the separation from his daughter, and the secrecy her life has entailed this past year."

"I didn't know Charlie had kids."

"Just one, but he doesn't see her as much as he'd like. He comes to visit me regularly, and on most weekends we go fishing, but Charlie needs more-" Billy stumbled over the word "-mobile friends." Bronte frowned sadly. She didn't quite know what to say. She nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder, and Billy patted it in thanks.

;

Jacob tossed in his small bed, grumbling and grunting; he was having trouble sleeping. His senses were in overdrive and his mind wouldn't still itself.

It was raining outside.

It was a hot, sticky rain, the kind that lifted the smells of mushrooms and tree sap from the soil and dropped the smell of pine to earth. It would be one of the last few warm rains of the year; the rusty smell of the summer rain was fading quickly, soon to be replaced by the crisp, icy smell of the winter hail.

Poor Jacob was restless. It was near one in the morning, officially the first day of school, and at first he could not fathom the reason for his insomnia. And then he realized. He had transferred from the Quilette school to the public high school of Forks... her old school. Why Jacob had thought it to be a good idea in the first place, he didn't remember; he was having second thoughts. He wasn't sure if he could make it through a day in her old school... not with her memory there, and the permeated stench of the leeches.

Poor Jacob Black, his mind said, his inner voice mimicking so many whose words of pity were lost on him. Poor broken-hearted boy, so young and foolish.

And he had been broken-hearted, for a time, while he thought he still might save her. He followed their scent for the greater portion of the summer after they left, leaving the pack and his father behind for months, consumed by his need to love her.

He now realized how foolish his endeavors had been.

She did not love him. His unrequited love, so tragically Shakespearean that it made Jacob sick to his stomach to think about it, let alone say her name.

Bella Sw- no. Bella Cullen now. His Bella did not exist anymore. She was dead.

And quite literally, to his logical mind. The sweet, happy smile and flushed cheeks that had haunted his dreams time and time again would now be a heartless grimace on a perfect, dead, porcelain face, smooth of imperfections and those little smile lines around her mouth.

He had politely declined the invitation to the wedding. Yes, it was cold, rude, and not very polite.

But polite was scarcely among the words used nowadays when describing Jacob Black.

;

Around 4:37 in the morning, Bronte Fischer gave up on sleep. She padded blindly through the house rubbing at her eyes, into the living room. She pulled a pan from the box marked "kitchen" and turned one of the gas burners on, warming her hands over the blue ring of fire before setting the pan atop it.

She munched on her scrambled eggs and perfectly crisped bacon while flipping through the channels on the television Charlie had fixed for her. The morning news flashed dumbly before her as she pondered Officer Charlie Swan, and Billy's suggestion to her. Bronte was completely open to being Charlie's friend, but she had a small inkling that Billy was implying more. She shook her head subconsciously; she had to be imagining things. Entertaining any romantic notion of Charlie Swan was absurd; he was a decently attractive man with a full head of hair, but he was so much older than she was. Well, not so much older, but older enough to be just a tad improper, at least ten years.

Bronte scolded herself - she was being insensitive. He was missing his only daughter, and was probably lonely for company and conversation. She thought maybe she should give him a chance. The thought lasted briefly. Charlie's grief over his Bella -while she could understand- would drain her energy levels if she didn't keep their relationship on a comfortably platonic level. She needed to make her intentions clear with Charlie before things got out of hand. She almost wanted to entertain the idea that Billy was playing some sort of sick joke on her, persuading her into having romantic feelings that Charlie -hopefully- didn't already have. In either case, she was undeniably going to make a fool of herself.

"Damnit," she cursed to no one.

;

The rumble could be heard from nearly a mile away. Before Jacob even pulled into the parking lot of Forks High, students stared at the entrance from inside their cars in anticipation. They looked on as he rode past the aisles of cars, parking in a side corner, next to a car he had never seen in Forks before. He killed the engine and removed his helmet, observing the car more closely. It was a Mazda 6 in a coy gunmetal grey, and the metallic paint winked salaciously in the morning sun. The black leather gleamed immaculately, and the modest spoiler sat above a Virginia license plate.

Jacob shrugged, dismounting his bike and placing the helmet on one of the handlebars, unperturbed by the thought of theft - it was Forks, after all. Walking along the cement walkway up to the school, Jacob stared straight ahead, avoiding the prodding eyes of his -now- classmates. Some were curious, some where prejudiced. His keen ears picked up comments about his hair, his height, and other physical aspects his height might suggest. An arch smirk slid unbidden to his face as he caught the eyes of the source, who giggled furiously, whispering behind her palm to her friends. He ambled down the halls, hands pocketed, looking every bit the mysterious foreigner. Jacobs stride was disrupted when he realized he had accidentally reached his first class, English.

An hour and a half later, Jacob emerged from his English class, a worn paperback copy of _As I Lay Dying_ simmering loosely in his hand. He sat quietly in the back of all his classes, seemingly attentive but rather unenthused. By his last class, Jacob was ready to go home... that is, until he saw the woman standing in front of the desk.

Or rather, smelled her. There was a smell so rich and primal in the air, it nearly made Jacob's mouth water. It was sensual and exotic, the woman may just as well have bathed in pheromones. Until he had sat down in the back of the room, Jacob had fought the urge to close his eyes and simply inhale the aroma; he could still smell her faintly from where he sat. Yet there was an underlying scent that he caught on his thirteenth sniff. Something pungent, sickly smelling. He held it only for a moment before it was gone again, replaced by the aphrodisiacal perfume of her body.

Once he had regained control of his senses, Jacob found the time, while the rest of the students came in, to look at her. Her black skirt was modest over her deep olive legs and the swell of the rear that Jacob could easily see when she turned to the side. It appeared that someone had painted a rather green crocodile onto her shoes, but matched smartly with her green sweater, over which he could make out the round tops of her breasts. Her dark hair was up, and strays flew out from the back and around her face, tickling her cheek and nose, making her sneeze a quaint, airy sneeze.

When the last student sat down, she smiled and closed the door. She paced back to the middle of the room, beaming.

"So, what can you tell me about a derivative?"

* * *

I'd like feedback on the re-installment of my first chapter. And suggestions as to what you'd like to see happen in the story, and what you wouldn't like to see happen; I'm open to all of it. It only takes a moment or two to shape the story to your liking :)

Pernicious


	2. Two

To you all, I present the new second chapter!

Yours,  
Pernicious

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**Two; **

"Jacob, could you see me after class please?"

A heated sweat ran over his palms as he made his way to her desk after class. She sat hunching over a pile of papers, a gleaming red pen poised in one hand, while the other tapped a light rhythm.

"You wanted to see me?" She looked up from her papers to meet his gaze.

Jacob was undeniably certain that his heart had stopped.

Her eyes were a swirling mix of Mayan chocolate with a touch of molten gold; everything behind him in the room was reflected back to him in the warmest shades of deep brown. She smiled first with her mouth, then with her eyes, light sparkling in them like a nebulous cloud of hot, newborn stars.

Jacob stammered, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. She said some things he couldn't quite digest, due to the timpani pounding in his chest, and found himself standing there long after she was done talking. He couldn't remember for the life of him when he'd actually left, or the amused smile on her lips as he stumbled out of the room.

**;**

Jacob's head spun with math - among other things - as he drove home on Friday. He could recall verbatim every fundamental theorem Miss Fischer had discussed, so long as it came from her shapely mouth; anything she wrote on the board was gibberish. The combination of numbers and letters on his page came to life as she spoke them, and dulled the moment her enticing voice left the air.

He ran a stop sign.

He recalled two days prior, they had already had a quiz on the first few concepts, and he struggled to grasp at their meanings as her legs came into his peripheral vision; she grazed about the desks, checking progress and giving hints. She had leaned down, close to his ear, and whispered with her raspy voice, "shame on you, Jacob. You know that one." His body quivered as her hot breath tickled his ear, and it took all his strength not to let out the primal growl that had begun to rumble deep in his chest. Her rear waved to him and she slunk away to her desk, and his own name echoed in his head.

He ran a red light.

He had gotten an 80 on that quiz, which was not in compliance with his usual grades. Miss Fischer had asked him, as she returned his paper, if he had been feeling well. He claimed he had had a particularly nasty headache that day. She replied that she expected him to be rather brilliant in her class, and she would not accept less than perfection from him. Jacob grinned haughtily at the thought. He fumed however, when she returned Andrew Sims' quiz; she rested her hand on his shoulder and obliged him with an "excellent work, Andrew." Jacob gritted his teeth loathingly.

He missed the sparkling grey car parked in front of his house.

Jacob was greeted cheerily with his name as he walked into his home. He shook his head, Miss Fischer's voice was in his head again from that day, whispering his name. It was accompanied, oddly enough, by a baritone voice he recognized belonging to Charlie Swan. He shook his head again to clear his hazy vision. He did not like at all what he saw.

He looked on in silent seething as Charlie Swan sat comfortably next to his Miss Fischer on his very long couch. Jacob caught Billy's eye. Billy spoke.

"Miss Fischer's been waiting on you, Jacob."

Jacob's face was still blank.

Miss Fischer spoke next. "I'm going to Port Angeles to pick out new furniture for my house, and I need a few strong men to help me. Your father has volunteered you. Don't you remember?"

So that's what she had been saying that day after class. Jacob mumbled a quiet "oh, yeah," feeling somewhat embarrassed.

Her smile still made him melt.

"Are we ready then?" Charlie Swan's voice broke his concentration on her white teeth.

"I suppose so," she replied.

**;**

Charlie rode in the passenger seat as Miss Fischer sped down the empty interstate; he seemed a bit uneasy with her quasi-reckless driving. Jacob rode quietly in the backseat behind him; he watched as Miss Fischer turned the wheel smoothly, never glancing at her speedometer.

"You know better than to speed with a cop in the car," Charlie joked.

She grinned mischievously. "Oh come on, Charlie. Where's your sense of adventure?" Her raspy voice trilled as she said this and laughed. Jacob noted she had a rich, sensuous laugh; he liked it. He tried to recall the way her voice sounded saying his name. How it would sound whispering his name, moaning his name, screaming his name...

They flew down the freeway toward Port Angeles, pushing the speed limit, if not the sound barrier. The grey car hummed along, purring through turns and roaring down straights. They reached the city in record time.

**;**

Several hours later, Miss Fischer plodded down the highway at a less than enjoyable speed. Jacob sat fidgeting in the passenger seat. Behind them, the small moving-truck followed behind at the languid pace of Charlie Swan. She pouted.

"Come on, Charlie. You drive like an old man."

Jacob could not help his small chuckle. She chuckled back.

"Listen to me, bad-mouthing the poor man."

"Miss Fischer?"

"Call me Bronte, Miss Fischer outside of school just makes me feel old."

Jacob tried her name. "Bronte." Jacob turned the air in the car from cool to warm when he saw her shiver. Bronte. He liked the way it felt to say it; coming from Jacob it sounded more like a growl. He could get used to calling her Bronte.

"Jacob?"

He started. "Huh?"

"Did you have a question, love?"

"Oh, no. Nevermind."

Bronte laughed. "Are you always so distracted, Jacob?"

"No, not really." Jacob sighed. He was never this distracted. He knew why though; that damn woman was enough to drive him off a cliff. The thought that there was anything going on between her and Charlie Swan made his blood almost literally boil. He tried to think of her lying comfortably in his arms, and was confronted by the violent urge to vomit. He dared not to think of her lying in his own arms, not with her sitting so close to him, her arm resting neatly on the armrest of the console; he might lose control.

He aimed to direct his thoughts elsewhere; how in hell was he going to be able to stay focused in her class? If he kept up the way he was, he would end up with a rather unseemly grade. Maybe he'd just study more. Jacob eyed Bronte from the corner of his eye, watching as she bit her full lip gently. A rogue smirk began to tug at his lips.

Or maybe he wouldn't.

**;**

Bronte foot danced anxiously over the gas pedal while she made idle conversation with Jacob. He was an interesting one. She noted his inattentive presence and his wandering mind. She also noted the immensity of his rough, coppery hands. The sun hit him through the passenger window, and in her side-view mirror, she could see the glowing profile of his creased brow and straight nose. His wide lips were a deep shade of terra cotta, and his high cheekbones and large eyebrows made him seem older, wiser. But the coy grin playing at his lips was a mystery to her, and she found herself unreasonably inveigled by him. The heat emanating from him was dizzying in her small car, and she vaguely wondered how he managed to fit.

She glanced stealthily at his large, square frame nearly touching her own. His shirt was pulled snug at the ends, stretched to its limits by his hulking shoulders. His hands sat comfortably in his lap, attached to his lean forearms, over which a sprinkling of straight, black hairs laid claim. His arms looked deceivingly soft, and Bronte suppressed the urge to touch them, abashed at her own impetuous mind. But she felt so strangely drawn to him, like a small fish fascinated by a colorful, shining lure. She feared she might swim to close though, and forever be snagged by the gleaming metal hook of consequence. She gripped the steering wheel firmly, determined not to be caught.

Jacob's arm brushed her own, and a loud spark crackled between them.

* * *

Please review!


	3. Three

The next installment has arrived!  
Be kind, please review.

Yours,  
Pernicious

And Happy New Years to all!

* * *

**Three;**

Jacob sped to Bronte's house the next morning; he was about an hour and a half early as he rang her doorbell. A minute passed before the door creaked open, revealing a mussed, sleepy-eyed Bronte. She squinted as she clutched her olive green robe to her - not so much against the approaching autumn, as against the heat emanating from the boy on her doorstep.

"Jacob? You're early." She glanced into the house to the microwave that read 8:30. "Very early."

Jacob was abashed at her words. "Sorry, should I come back later?"

She gave a lazy smile. "No, no, dear. Not to worry. Come on in."

Jacob was acutely reminded to keep his thoughts in check as he squeezed by her in the doorway; the back of his hand brushed over the silk robe on her thighs. He suppressed a groan.

She did, too.

Bronte cleared her throat. "Can I make you some breakfast?"

Jacob was about to object when his stomach rumbled loudly. Bronte grinned and ran off to the kitchen. "Make yourself at home," she called as she flitted off. Jacob followed her to the expansive kitchen, where he took a bar stool at the counter, watching her dart hither and yon. She poured a glass of orange juice and offered one to Jacob, who accepted. She sipped at hers idly.

"What's on the schedule for today?" Jacob began.

She hopped onto the counter, and began to list on her fingers. "Well furniture, for one thing; that shouldn't take too long. Charlie's only here to bring the furniture in; you can help me paint if you'd like, it might be messy though. And then I'll need to mow the lawn. Think you're up for a hard day of manual labor?"

Jacob nodded, not completely listening; he had been busy investigating something else. "Have you always had that?" He spoke regarding her left eye; there was a pinkish scar -slightly raised- that ran just below her eyebrow, sometimes concealed by lack of light. But here in her kitchen, under the heat of the halogen bulbs and unguarded by makeup, the jagged scratch clashed visibly with the tawny color of her skin.

"What do you - oh, the scar? That was a long time ago."

"How did you get it?"

Bronte's smile diminished. "A family road trip when I was about seventeen years old. We were going skiing, like we did every year. It was just like any other time. A semi came around the side of the mountain too fast though, and tipped over; we ran head-long into it. Received a rather nasty concussion, I did. Woke up in the hospital a few weeks later; I barely remembered my own name."

Jacob knew he shouldn't ask about the rest of her family, but the words were out before he could curb his tongue. "And... your family?"

Bronte took a deep breath. "My mother died instantly; my father bled to death holding her in the passenger seat. My brother... God, he lost so much blood. O negative, too, as the fates would have it. No one thought he was going to make it. He still lives in Virginia, in our old house. I never actually sold it; Austen couldn't bear selling it, but I could hardly bear living in it, so I moved here."

"Why Washington?"

Bronte continued, her voice beginning to shake. "We had been on our way to Colorado. Daddy loved to go to the mountains. It was always so quiet, so peaceful..." She broke off.

Jacob smelled the tears before they had a chance to fall, and was at the other side of the counter as Bronte fell onto his chest and began to cry. Jacob cursed himself a thousand times over for what he had just caused. The beautiful woman in his arms shook with her sobs, and at his expense. He should have asked his father or Charlie, but not her. He somehow now felt responsible for what had happened to her family. His heart prickled with guilt, and he clutched Bronte tighter to his chest. He stood there for what felt like hours, holding her and smoothing her hair; she snuggled into the warmth of his body, resting her head on his shoulder. Jacob hadn't realized she had fallen asleep until he heard her soft snores; he carried her to her small bed and placed her back under the rumpled sheets. He tucked her hair behind her ears, and wiped the tear trails from her cheeks, allowing his fingers to caress the smooth features of her face.

Jacob felt the sudden urge to protect her - to always be near her. He promised himself he wouldn't let anything happen to her; whether he needed to be just a friend, or perhaps more, he could let no harm befall his Bronte. He placed a lingering kiss on her forehead, and returned to the kitchen to make her an elaborate breakfast for when she awoke.

**;**

The day grew warmer as Jacob and Charlie moved furniture into Bronte's house; it was still early September, and summer clung to the air. Charlie had removed his shirt, and was left in his white undershirt that clung gently to the expanse of his shoulders and back, and his arms when he lifted. Jacob looked on as Bronte's eyes roved over Charlie as he smiled at her while carrying a small chair inside. Jacob countered his attack by removing his own shirt, leaving him in his black, ribbed tank. He gave Bronte a rakish, crooked grin as he picked up the remaining three chairs and carried them inside. He watched through his peripheral as Bronte's eyes assaulted his backside.

Bronte laughed, these men were worse than peacocks, what with their strutting about her yard, lifting furniture as displays of power and masculinity. She shook her head at their antics; she had seen children act more mature. Bronte did not enjoy having to play babysitter to grown men acting like kids.

Bronte did however, enjoy a good cockfight every now and then.

Before Charlie excused himself to leave for work, he graced Bronte with a very friendly - and very sweaty - hug. Jacob watched as Charlie audaciously rubbed the length of her back, from the nape of her elegant neck to the small of her luscious back. Bronte stepped away from the hug and walked him to the door. She returned to where Jacob sat, seemingly flustered.

"Charlie's a nice man," Jacob said cryptically.

"Yes, he is," she replied disconcertedly. "But I hope he doesn't have the wrong idea."

"What do you mean?" Jacob asked, feigning ignorance.

"Well, your father suggested I be friends with Charlie, but I can't shake the feeling that he was implying more than just friendship."

Jacob laughed uncomfortably. Billy was trying to set Bronte up with Charlie. It was a laughable thought; Jacob didn't like it. The possessiveness of the wolf began to itch, and he felt he'd have problems in the near future if he didn't speak to Billy directly. But what would he say? He didn't even know what he was feeling. A powerful thought tickled at the back of his mind, but he refused to acknowledge it. He looked at Bronte instead; she was biting her lip, and wringing her hands uneasily. She was most likely thinking about Charlie. He needed to get her away from him - mentally and physically. He searched among the boxes in the living room and extracted the color wheel Bronte had mentioned earlier. He fanned it out; his eyes glazed over at all the colors the wheel presented. He slapped it down on the counter, startling Bronte.

"What's your favorite color?"

Once over her initial shock, Bronte grinned at him, mildly thankful for his apt perception of her state of mind. She grabbed the color wheel shouting unintelligible words as she raced out the door; Jacob reacted quickly, chasing her from the house to the car, grabbing his shirt from the uncut lawn.

**;**

Three rooms and six coats of paint later, Jacob and Bronte sat in a sun-filled room at the front of the house, painting the remainder of a wall. The fresh lacquer shone a warm aubergine in the light, and a cool slate grey in the shadows. Boxes of take-out rested on top of the tarp-covered furniture in the middle of the room, and the scent of wantons and rice mixed with the paint fumes in a delicate balance. Jacob chewed an egg roll thoughtfully, watching as Bronte smoothed the paint roller up and down the wall, admiring the stretching length of her body. He turned to grab the box of wantons -eyes still fixed on Bronte- and tripped over a hump in the tarp, falling sideways against the fresh paint. He stepped back; a large gray spot shone against his dark jeans, and Bronte tried hard not to laugh.

"You've ruined your jeans, you know."

Jacob shrugged as if they had not been his favorite pair of denim. He winked. "It adds character, I think."

Bronte scoffed audibly.

Jacob fixed her with a most mischievous look. "You know what else adds character?" He questioned.

"I couldn't possibly know," she replied coyly, against her better judgment.

Jacob lunged at Bronte, his arm outstretched, striking her in the cheek with his paintbrush. From his attack she retained a silvery gash from her hairline to her chin. She gaped open-mouthed at him. "You barbarian!" She exclaimed.

Jacob coughed in a fit of laughter, clutching at his stomach. Bronte struck back, spreading her roller brush over his nose, forehead, and into his hair. She couldn't decide whether to call him Rogue or a skunk - she hadn't the time, Jacob had dipped his brush into the bucket of paint and sent a stream of grey bullets her way. She shielded her face with her hands, feeling the cool paint splatter against her palms, stomach and thighs. Purple-grey crossed the front of her shirt in a shoddy trail, and she squealed in horror. "Jacob!"

Jacob shivered at the sound of his name from her lips; the fact that she had all but screamed it was enough to compromise Jacob's self-control. He assailed her slashes of paint, and she battled back fervently. When the paint in the bucket was spent, they stood in the living room, sweating and panting, their chests heaving from the aftermath of their battle. Bronte looked at her arms.

"Damn," she whispered. "If I don't get this paint off now, I'll be scrubbing for weeks." She scurried off to the bathroom, and Jacob followed. The sink was steadily filling with scathingly hot water, and Bronte retrieved two washcloths from a cupboard, dipping them into the water along with a bar of soap. She threw a soapy cloth at Jacob as she began to scrub at her arms, removing the quickly caking paint from her skin. She used the mirror to wipe the paint from her face; her breath caught in her throat when she saw Jacob begin to remove his shirts. "What are you doing?" She asked, seemingly scandalized by his presumption to disrobe in her presence.

Jacob motioned to the streak of grey on his black shirt. "The paint's pressed through my shirt," he explained, as if it were the most obvious thing.

She acknowledged the fact with a meek "oh," swallowing hard as she tried not to look at his long, russet torso in the mirror in front of her. She couldn't help herself. He was looking down at his abdomen, rubbing at the offensive grey stain; the sinew in his arms flexed with his strokes, and the muscles of his abdomen tightened as the cloth scraped with force against the plane of his stomach. He caught her eye. She diverted her attention to the washcloth, which she threw to the counter with a hasty _flop._ She stammered. "Well I'm finished, I-"

"Wait, you've got a huge spot on your neck." He approached her from behind, and she watched in silent trepidation as he effectively sealed off her only escape route. He picked up the cloth on the counter, discarding his on the floor. "Let me." he submerged the rag in the steaming water, releasing a flood of milky grey into the sink. He rang out the rag, his arms encircling her, his hands displayed to her, so large and masculine. He pressed the washcloth to her neck and began to wipe away the paint gently, soothingly. He ran his fingers over every newly cleaned inch of her neck and shoulders, ensuring its cleanliness; Bronte watched in the mirror, still stunned as he wiped her neck with smooth, languid strokes, his upper arm caressing hers as he cleaned her.

When she felt the tingling heat of his breath on her skin, her eyes fluttered closed. She could feel the hard contours of his body pressing lightly against her back, and she shifted her weight, if only to feel the movement of him. Jacob squelched a groan from her movement, and used much of his will to keep himself from smoothing the whole length of his body against her, to press her body against the hard surface of the soapstone counter. Instead he bend his head down to her neck, inhaling the utterly intoxicating scent of her clean skin. Bronte had shuddered when the heat of the rag left her neck, but shuddered still when it was replaced by the lightness of his lips, whispering ever so gently against her skin; he was saying something unimportant about him being done, but she was dizzy with heat and her vision was hazy. She shook her head to clear it, and came face to face with a rather compromising position.

Her hands gripped the edges of the dark counter, her knuckles white as snow. Behind her stood her student, Jacob Black, shirtless and glorious, washcloth in one hand, her hip in the other. His eyes were closed and the proximity of his lips to her skin of her neck made the hairs there stand rigid.

Lost for words, she bolted from the bathroom, leaving a shirtless, glorious Jacob bemused by the sink.

* * *

I only ask that you review :)


	4. Four

May I present the next installment of the story!  
Please review.

Yours,  
Pernicious

* * *

**Four;**

Bronte had not looked at him all class. She passed back homework and quizzes, tossing Jacob's on his desk from a generous distance; she made no move to comment on the sloppy C he received for his distracted efforts. The click of her heels seemed oceans away, and her illustrious scent hardly reached his keen nose. She neither called on him nor took roll. He was sick with himself.

Gods, why had he been so damn bold?

He thought back to yesterday; probably the singular most amazing evening of his newly-acquired adulthood. He recalled her impish grin and her coy gaze; her sweet laugh, embedded with a snort she tried avidly to hide; and the gentle curve of her neck, the blood under which rose to an eager boil under his stroking fingers. Her hip had felt luscious and full in his rough hand; he couldn't even remember when he had reached for her hip, and what drove him to such venturous actions. Jacob could scarcely believe his own thoughts as he replayed the evening in his head. He had watched in the mirror as her sultry eyes lulled softly closed; as her knuckles became whiter still whilst she moved against him. From her throat had escaped a half moan, half sigh that had been so hushed, he thought maybe he had imagined it; regardless, it had him shivering even now.

Gods, he was such a fool. What had he been thinking? Seducing a teacher?

'That's not even what happened,' he though to himself. But what _did_ happen? It had started as an innocent paint fight; but the next Jacob knew, he was fighting off groans of incandescent pleasure while his calculus teacher moaned quietly against the sink.

Jacob felt his body reacting to the soft moans echoing in his mind, and gripped his pencil tightly in concentration, attempting to usher the thoughts of his teacher from his head. The sounds persisted, accompanied by another sound - panting; a deep, rugged panting, and a feral growl that he realized could only belong to his own subconscious. The pencil snapped between his fingers, and the halves tumbled weakly to the floor. The clattering of the light wood was abnormally loud to him, and his ears were ringing, making the sound of Miss Fischer calling his name seem buffered and dulled, as if he were underwater. He looked up and saw her with a look of both confusion and concern etched into her perfect face; Jacob could not make out her words though; the sound of his heart trying to break free from his chest effectively silenced her.

The steady tick of the clock reverberated around his head, the sound speeding up to match his own heart. The pressure building in his body was becoming too intense to bear. With a final glance at his Miss Fischer, Jacob rose from his desk - nearly knocking it over - and sped from the room. The bell sounded moments after.

Jacob was barely into the woods behind the school when the pressure inside him climaxed in an explosion of red fur. He took off running toward his home, snapping branches and logs as he barreled through them; scraps of clothing floated down from the sky, and a piece of a shoe lay forgotten on the ground.

**;**

Later that week, Bronte paced around her living room, her brow furrowed; she was in quite a conundrum. Her grade-book lay open on the coffee table, along with notes, homework assignments, and tests. Her dilemma was simple: Jacob Black was not doing well in her class. She often watched him when she gave out tests; he hunched over his paper, staring at the pages, writing half-formed equations and making operations that didn't seem to make sense. But then there he'd be next class, in front of her desk with his rogue grin, turning in his homework: complete and flawlessly correct. He obviously understood the material, but she couldn't fathom why he was performing so poorly on the tests. She needed to talk to Billy, or Jacob himself, though she was hesitant. She sucked in a deep gulp of air; she would go visit Jac-the Black's tonight. Tonight at- Bronte groaned.

She had a date with Charlie tonight.

No, no, she told herself. Not a date. Dinner. She was going to _dinner_ with Charlie. Gods, she couldn't even remember how she had gotten herself into this mess.

No, she could remember exactly how she had gotten into this mess. And she decided to blame most of it on Billy Black. She and Billy had grown a rather comfortable friendship since the first time she had met him in that Chinese restaurant. She came over on weekends (Jacob was always gallivanting around town with his friends, Billy had informed her, much to her relief) and cooked, but for the most part just kept Billy company. With Jacob growing up and always being out, and with Charlie working all the time, it got lonely during the day, so Bronte conceded to coming over on her available weekends (not that she had prior obligations).

One lazy Sunday, Bronte had been lounging on the Black's couch, watching soccer with Billy. It was Manchester and Milan, but it was a re-airing, Bronte already knew Manchester won 3-1, and she was damn proud of it. She was shaken from the game by the slamming of the screen door. She turned, half-expecting to see Jacob standing over her, but was instead greeted by the face of Charlie Swan, complete in black uniform. "Hello, Charlie," she said casually, turning back to the game. An expression of mild shock passed across Bronte's face when he sat himself on the couch next to her feet.

"Good afternoon, Charlie," Billy said. Bronte drifted in and out of their conversation as she was prone to do around the two of them, uttering a small "yeah" and "mm hmm" when required.

"So how about I take us all to dinner tonight?" Charlie asked.

"Oh, not tonight Charlie, I'm not feeling too well."

"Then how about next weekend?" Charlie proposed.

"Sure," Bronte muttered habitually, expecting Billy to chime in his acceptance as well.

"I have a man coming to see about the roof," Billy said.

"Then I guess it's just you and me, Bronte. I'll pick you up at seven next Saturday." With that Charlie lifted himself from the couch and showed himself the door, driving off in his cruiser. A few moments passed before Bronte realized what she had just agreed to. She looked at Billy across the room; he wore a smirk of mild satisfaction as he twiddled his thumbs innocently. Bronte scowled.

"You old dog."

**;**

The doorbell rang at 7:03. Bronte's sweating palm slipped against the smooth, brushed surface of the door knob, and she wiped her hands, taking a few breaths before opening the door.

She was glad to see that Charlie had dressed casually; dark jeans and a brown shirt. Bronte had worn jeans and a green shirt she felt was conservative enough for their situation. Charlie shifted awkwardly on the veranda, his hands in his pockets. Bronte felt a small pang of guilt for not having given Charlie a chance earlier; bashful just wasn't her type of man, and if she could find one word to describe Charlie Swan...

Dinner had been one of the more awkward experiences she had had throughout her lifetime. Charlie hadn't said anything wrong, no; on the contrary, he had scarcely spoken at all. They had lapsed into a not-too-comfortable silence, before Charlie would comment on the quality of the food, after which the silence would fall again. Charlie had so graciously picked up the small tab, elaborating on the discount he always received for being an officer.

They stood silently on the veranda; Charlie was fidgety, and Bronte was rummaging through her bag for her key. Charlie spoke up.

"Listen, Bronte, I had fun tonight."

"Yeah, Charlie. It was nice," she replied, a little unfocused.

"Maybe I could take you to dinner again some other weekend? I'm working all next weekend, but not during the week, although you probably don't want to go to dinner during the week with school and-" Gods, he was rambling. He got like that when he was nervous, poor thing.

"Charlie," she interrupted.

"Huh? Oh, sorry." Charlie scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed.

"Listen, Charlie, you're a terrific guy, and funny to boot. But I just don't think us getting involved is a good idea. We're just a little - just a lot - different."

"Yeah, it's uh, fine." He stammered. "I understand." He stuck a hand in his pocket, habitually, and stalled, searching for something to say.

"Come here, Charlie." Bronte stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him snugly, which he returned in kind. He felt like a chagrined child in her arms, in need of reassurance and comfort, and she couldn't help but feel for him. She gave him a peck on the cheek, and he obliged her by returning it to her own cheek.

He backed down the steps of the porch, suggesting Bronte join Billy and himself on their next fishing trip, to which she fervently protested. They laughed lightly, and Charlie drove off down the dark road.

Bronte hugged herself against the cool night, she hated to do that to him; Charlie was a kind soul. Maybe too kind, she thought. She hadn't had a date in almost a year, and the last thing she thought she needed was fragile tenderness. What she needed was passion, heat, fire. Something to rekindle the old flame in her spirit, and drive her up a wall with want and need. She wanted to feel that delirious, dizzying sensation that came with being infatuated, the sense that you couldn't get enough. She wanted...

"Jacob."

**;**

"Jacob," she said, startled. He was standing on the veranda, looking at her with a peculiar expression on his face. Funny, Bronte thought as she looked around; she couldn't remember when Charlie had left, or when Jacob had appear before her, a specter clad in torn jeans and a black shirt.

"How long have you been standing out here?" he asked.

Bronte wondered how odd she looked to him in that moment, standing on the porch, key in hand, gazing blankly into the night. "Not long," she stammered. "Please, come in."

Jacob was pensive as he stepped through the door; when he had seen her standing there on the porch, he knew she had just come back from dinner with Charlie. She was mesmerizing, he thought, even in the yellow, insect-repelling porch light. Her eyes were nearly black in the dim light, and her modest green shirt protected her skin from his heated gaze. He did like a chase, though. He grinned at the thought as he flopped down on her new couch.

"How was dinner?" he asked, casually. Bronte looked at him, mildly surprised. "It's harder than you think to keep secrets in a place like Forks."

"Oh," she acknowledged meekly. She poured herself a glass of wine before returning to the living room to sit on an ottoman in front of him.

"That bad?" he asked, motioning to her generous serving.

"It wasn't spectacularly bad," she corrected, feeling the need to protect the timid Charlie's credibility from the audacious, copper-skinned boy in front of her. "Just a bit awkward, is all."

"Did he kiss you?" he asked in a very accusing tone.

"Did you need something, Jacob?" she replied quickly. His face changed to a slightly more serious expression. It didn't matter anyway if she didn't want to tell him, he could smell Charlie all over her, especially on her face and hair. He felt that strange urge again, the urge to possess, to protect and claim; it only slightly masked his simmering rage. He wanted to be the one to stroke her long, dark hair... to be the one to kiss her. To drive her up a wall with want and need.

Jacob fought the overwhelming urge to kiss her. "I need help," he said, more to himself than to her.

She nodded in understanding.

"I just don't know what the problem is," he explained. "I _know_ I know the material, how to do the problems; I know the equations. It's just-" he paused. "As soon as I put my pencil to the paper on a test, I blank. I can't think at all; I can barely make sense of the letters on the pages. I don't know what to do. Please help me."

**;**

"So, who is she?" Jacob was sitting on the floor of Sam's living room; the pack was reconvening after their patrol - not that it was of any particular necessity to patrol anymore. Jacob knew his thoughts could not be hidden from his family; it was just a matter of time before they found out. They had experienced how Jacob had felt when he had first lain eyes on her; how her smell intoxicated him; the incident in the bathroom (at which Paul couldn't help the irony of a wolfish whistle); how sick he felt when she wouldn't even look at him; and the rage and jealousy when he saw Charlie with her on the porch. They felt his need to be near her, to protect her, to own her.

"She's my math teacher," Jacob said, exasperated.

Paul whistled again. "Tutoring, eh?" Bronte had agreed to tutor him two to three times a week after school. "Man, if I had a fantasy-"

"Paul!" Leah snapped, cutting him off. As the only girl in the pack, Leah was subject to the boys' more... chauvinistic comments.

"I'm just saying," he defended.

Embry jumped in, his voice more serious. "Do you know what this means though?"

Jacob could feel the whole pack looking at him; he felt as if he were on trial for some treacherous crime, and his palms were sticky with sweat from the rapidity of his fluttering heart. He could hear one person speak, but the reverberation in his mind seemed as if the whole pack spoke in unison, condemning him to a rapturous fate in a sea of ecstasy.

"You've imprinted."

* * *

More reviews cause faster updates!

Yours,  
Pernicious


	5. Five

Please review! That's all I ask.

Yours,  
Pernicious

* * *

**Five;**

Several weeks later, since coming to terms with the fact that he had imprinted-

"Fuck," he cursed loudly. No, Jacob had not come to terms with the fact that he had imprinted. He was angry, but not at Bronte; he scoffed, it seemed he could never be mad at her. He was actually mad that: one, to Bronte he was likely only a child; and two, she was his teacher and therefore legally unobliged to receive him, although he was legally an adult.

He kicked the bed frame; the wooden headboard slammed furiously against the wall, bouncing, before dampening back to its previous state. He flopped backward onto the bed, his long legs stretching over the end. He considered his next possible moves. He wanted, above all other things, to run to her home, throw her onto the new wrought-iron bed, and ravish her into oblivion. He groaned. The tightening of his jeans was swift, and Jacob was forced to placate his desires in order to clear his head.

He was immensely glad her small trifle with Charlie had ended. The thought of her anywhere near Charlie Swan was enough to make his stomach turn and his flesh burn. He groaned again, pressing his the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to rid his mind of any and all thoughts of his Bronte lying comfortably in Charlie Swan's arms.

There was a knock at the front door.

"Fuck." Jacob had completely forgotten; he had tutoring today. For the past few weeks, Bronte would come by two - sometimes three - times a week and tutor Jacob in Calculus. Their actions were routine: Bronte would sit him down at the table and attempt to explain the many theorems and concepts of her class; Jacob sat next to her, trying with all his might not to ogle her as she performed complex operations in her head; and Billy read quietly in the living room, determined not to disturb. But there were two things that were different about today.

One, Billy was out with Charlie. Jacob answered the door and was greeted by Bronte's gleaming smile. She carried her usual text books and folders, her canvas bag slung over her shoulder; she leaned slightly from its weight. Jacob could not help but return her smile - it was contagious. But he frowned when her expression suddenly turned reserved and she would not meet his eyes. And Jacob realized:

Two, he was not wearing a shirt.

**;**

Bronte stammered considerably when Jacob answered the door. The circumstances reminded her all too much of the events that had transpired in her bathroom those weeks ago; her blush was hidden only slightly by her olive skin. His long, coppery torso was glowing in the pale Washington light, and every highlight and shadow of his munificent muscles were on display for her to observe. The subtle look of surprise on Jacob's face at her reaction made her realize that he hadn't actually answered the door shirtless on intention; she couldn't tell if she were flattered or offended.

Jacob gave an abashed grin and muttered a quick "come on in." When Bronte was finished organizing her things on the dining room table, Jacob entered, this time clad in a light cotton shirt, which clung magnificently to his back and shoulders, and fluttered a good inch or two over the waist of his jeans. It was hard to decide which state of Jacob's dress affected Bronte more. She shuddered and quickly sat down. Jacob did the same.

Their session was grueling. Jacob had been trying fruitlessly to drill the concepts of related rates and parametric derivatives into his brain for over an hour. He was trying to visualize the word problem before him.

"So," Bronte began. "You have a ladder that's ten feet long leaning against a wall that's eight feet high. It wants you to find the rate at which the top of the ladder is slipping if at six feet away, the bottom of the ladder is slipping at three feet per second."

Jacob looked hopeful. "But don't the top of the ladder and the bottom of the ladder slip at the same rate?"

Bronte sighed. "No."

Jacob's head dropped to the table. He groaned loudly with anguish. Bronte spoke quickly.

"I think you need to look at this from a completely mathematical perspective." She grabbed a piece of paper and began drawing. Jacob looked up to find a picture of the world problem much neater than the one he had drawn on his own paper. On it she had drawn the ladder, wall, floor, and labeled the distances. She scribbled an equation. He recognized it; the Pythagorean Theorem. He looked at her curiously. She explained.

"Okay, so the ladder against the wall makes a right triangle..."

Jacob zoned out as Bronte described the problem in detail. Gods, she was hypnotizing. Her eyes were alight with knowledge, and her passion for not only teaching, but helping, surprised him. She had sat down almost every other day with him, determined not to allow him to miss a beat. Her hands darted about the page, her left hand holding the paper in place at various angles, while her right worked equations and drew straight lines with effortless strokes. Her lips molded to her words fluidly, and she bit her lip in thought - but only after subconsciously wetting it with her tongue. Jacob was going mad. His days ran together like the watercolors of the art that hung lopsided in the foyer; and each time his vision stopped spinning, there she was, standing in his living room, looking just as beautiful in her sweatpants and she had in that cunning black dress she had worn to the school's Christmas dance.

"Do you understand?"

Jacob did not start, but came to mildly, his senses awakening slowly to her features. Her eyes came to focus, then her petite nose and taupe lips; and then that intoxicating smell, but he still could not place that light, sticky aroma that hovered beneath the surface, now much more pungent after winter break. At the moment he really could not care less.

"Jacob?"

"Do you want some ice cream?"

**;**

Bronte followed Jacob into the kitchen, where Jacob retrieved a can of whipped cream, a gallon tub of ice cream, and a sizable wooden spoon appropriate for baking. Jacob tried to feed her the whipped cream, "accidentally" missing, sending a trail from the corner of her mouth to the edge of her jaw. She squealed and slapped Jacob's large shoulder, to which he feigned injury.

Bronte leaned casually against the fridge, trying to wipe the whipped cream from her face; she was relatively stunned. It wounded her slightly to realize that Jacob's attentiveness slipped more often than not during her lectures. She had been subject to a myriad of stares and ganders (that she had, for a time, tried to ignore) on Jacob's behalf; while from their inception she had been mildly perturbed, Bronte now both feared and enjoyed the attention she received from him. Yes, it was selfish, she admitted whilst Jacob spooned large heaps of ice cream into his mouth, licking at the rivulets of green mint chocolate chip that ran down his chin. Bronte was struck by a sudden urge, and as he lifted the can of whipped cream to his mouth, an overwhelming heat pooled in her stomach, and a carnal desire that had tickled the back of her mind now crept its way to the front, enticing her with images she could surely be fired for. Her breath left her in a small sigh.

Jacob halted, and swallowed his whipped cream in one large, throat-straining gulp. His nostrils flared, inhaling a distinct scent. His senses were in overdrive. He could hear her heart beating, pumping blood to that most sensuous place of her body, from which he could feel the heat emanating those few feet away. His nose lifted her entrapping smell from the stale air - ingrained into his mind forever. A muscle near his mouth twitched, and he fought for his human restraint, his control.

He fixed her with a gaze, a heated gaze that made her flesh burn and her body squirm; the predatory look in his eyes both scared and excited Bronte to a state of mild disgust, but her eyes were locked to his own, and their connection blazed like dry kindling in hell. Bronte could not anticipate what would happen if she held Jacob's gaze... but she feared more what would not happen if she managed to tear her eyes away. Her body was limp against the fridge, the cool surface complimenting the fire of her skin; she stood motionless, paralyzed prey while she watched her captor move closer.

He stood a good foot-plus taller than Bronte, and he looked down into her eyes, stunning her with their intensity. She dared not move, or breath... but watch. Watch as his hands pressed against the fridge, ensconcing her in his fiery prison; watch as his mouth came dangerously close to her ear; she could feel his being hovering over her without even touching; the pull of his charged skin on her lonely electrons was something she felt on an entirely different level of her conscious. His red skin sang to her own, her hands drawn to the muscular barrel of his biceps, where she latched on - if only for something to help her root herself to the real world, before she slipped away into oblivion.

Jacob's mind was reeling at the colossal effect of their minimal physical contact. Gods, she was a vision. Her legs were trembling ever so slightly, her fingers searing blisters onto his arms. She was wild-eyed like a cornered doe, her chest heaving with every breath. Her hair clung to her neck and forehead from the proximity of his body heat; he could almost see her skin steaming in the winter chill that crept through the house. A sticky trail of whipped cream still clung to her jaw and cheek, glistening, beckoning in the warm light of the kitchen.

In one smooth, fluid motion, Jacob licked the trail from her jaw - just below her ear - to the very corner of her mouth, where he placed a languid, open-mouthed kiss, pulling fatally at her resolve like unsteady hands pulling at the last supporting Jenga block.

And then everything that Bronte had feared - had avoided - fell painfully on her like a pile of dry-pressed bricks.

She pulled Jacob to her, molding her soft body against the stone wall of his chest and abdomen; the feeling was tragically euphoric, and she nearly cried out from the paradoxical sensations. Jacob wasted no time reciprocating, and had descended upon her mouth before she could even gasp, leaving her more breathless and heated than when she had held her breath. His lips danced along hers slowly, sensuously, pulling at her core. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth, nipping gently and earning a tortured groan from Jacob. He licked the length of her bottom lip in one long stroke, and her knees buckled. She fell against him, and he lifted her, pressing her rather ungentlemanly against the fridge; it kicked to a halt before humming back to life, its subtle vibrations tingling the base of Bronte's spine. Her legs wound around his waist, pressing her knees into his sides, silently urging him on.

Jacob's mind was everywhere at once. The elation he felt was nothing compared to his need to feel her on every inch of his plagued skin. He let one hand caress the side of her face and neck while the other braced against the fridge; he pressed against her more, trying to get even closer still. He didn't think he could be any closer without actually slipping under her skin; he did not mind the prospect. When Bronte raked her tongue over his teeth, Jacob's hand smacked at the fridge, and he ground his hips against hers, his rapidly growing erection pressing into her stomach.

Bronte reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling roughly; several seams ripped at his shoulders, and Jacob shuddered from the loss of contact when the shirt came over his head. Her hands were on him instantly, her fingernails slicing into every contour and crevice, sending a harrowing tingle throughout his entire chest. She palmed the expanse of his back, and his head dipped down to her neck, placing hot, open kisses beneath her ear. He used his tongue to trace the hard, C-shaped cartilage of her ear, and earned a resonating moan from Bronte. Her head fell back against the fridge and she breathed loudly, gasping to catch her breath. When she felt the raw voltage of Jacob's fingers swimming beneath the hem of her shirt, her hips bucked hard against him, and he ground against her in response. The seam of Bronte's pants rubbed scabrously against his swollen member, and the low frequency of his moan sent hot pulsars through her soft skin.

There was some inherent part of Jacob that didn't believe this was happening... that the aromatic, pliable body beneath his fingertips was some sick joke thought up by his lustful subconscious. He would wake up in the morning hot, sweaty, and disappointed, and find that his Bronte was again lost to him. But the fervent cry that came from the body whose breast he was kissing, whose neck he was biting, could only have come from his angel in real, three-dimensional space and time.

His hands gripped her rear as Jacob began walking, effectively holding her up. He stumbled blindly to his room, pausing here and there to press Bronte eagerly against a wall or doorframe - including the back of his own closed door, grinding against her harder each time. He dropped her onto the bed and she laughed as she bounced before coming to rest. Jacob straddled her on the bed, removing her shirt swiftly and tossing it to the side, where it landed haphazardly on the floor. Bronte leaned back on her palms, watching Jacob watch her. She felt a pang of guilt at the immorality of the situation, which left as quickly as it came when she felt Jacob's hand running up the thigh of her polyester yoga pants. She felt a bold urge to know:

"Jacob, are you a virgin?" He grinned wickedly and leaned in to suck earnestly at the center of her throat, leaving her skin feverish. The power of her moan made her forget her question, and any thoughts of being bold or in control were gone in a flash of his shining white teeth. He moved a hand behind her, to the small of her back, massaging where he found the two small, symmetrical dimples that resided above her backside. He pressed her to him, sliding his hips up and against her, the feeling his clothed erection against her thin pants making her gyrate her hips in response. His hand slipped down into her pants, where he found no trace of panties; he smirked into her mouth and kneaded her rear, squeezing while still humping against her. Their gasping got louder, the intervals between filled with recurring moans from either one.

There was a knock at Jacob's bedroom door. He and Bronte froze, neither knowing whether to scramble for their clothes or remain where they were. Bronte's eyes were wide as the door opened and Billy's chair became visible.

"Jacob, Sam is here. He says it's urgent." Billy's expression was masked as he quietly examined the scene before him. Without allowing any explanation or response, Billy backed out of the room and closed the door. Bronte's eyes began to tear, and Jacob tried to assure her quietly; she would not look at him.

"Hey," he whispered. He took her face in his hands, kissing her on the forehead. "It's fine, Bronte. It's going to be okay." He pulled her to his chest, cradling her against him, stroking her hair tenderly. He kissed the top of her head, and helped her retrieve her clothing and freshen up, all the while kissing her lightly on the cheeks, nose, and neck. He hugged her from behind as she stood at his bedroom door, afraid of what lay on the other side. She squeezed his hands, baffled at the seismic shift in their relationship - the ease with which he embraced her, kissed her freely, spoke without restraint. He whispered in her ear again:

"It's going to be okay."

**;**

Jacob had Bronte wait in his room, tucking her into his bed on orders to nap; Sam knew about Jacob's imprinting, but Bronte had yet to know about the Quiluete pack and its legends. He thought it better to leave her out of pack business until he found the right time to inform her about his... condition. He had only just now established some skewed, unspoken form of a relationship with her; if he threw it away by dropping a bomb of this magnitude on her, he'd never forgive himself.

When Jacob stepped out of his room, softly shutting the door behind him, he was met with the implicating grins of nearly half the pack. Jacob picked self-consciously at the freshly-torn seams of his shirt, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Paul whooped.

"Even human I can tell what you're thinking." Jacob shushed him, pointing to his room. Paul gave a small 'oh' of comprehension. The grin on his face remained, nonetheless.

"Why are all of you here? What's this important?"

Sam spoke. "We've been patrolling the borders sporadically, as you know. Even though there is no longer any real need for a standing treaty, it is still our duty to keep our land and our families safe."

"Go on," Jacob urged.

"These past few days, we've been picking up on some animal skulking in and out of our borders."

"Animal?"

"Or so we thought. It's fast, smart, but we could never pick up its scent, its been downwind of the patrols all week. That is, until last night."

"Christ, Sam," Paul interrupted. "You're taking longer than the elders with their stories. It's a vampire. It's been devouring every animal on the peninsula;" Paul scoffed. "Half the species will be extinct by the end of the month. We lost its trail early this morning." Sam shot him a look, and Paul shrugged his shoulders.

Jacob looked puzzled. "Are you sure its not just one of the Cullen's? Or the other covens? They had their tiff with the Volturi, but that was ages ago. Still, it's not one of their guests?"

Seth shook his head.

"Then who is it?"

Seth looked resigned. "We have no idea."

**;**

Bronte slept on. The pack was gone. Jacob sat on his couch, head in his hands. He rubbed his cheeks, thinking. Who - no, what - was out there? They couldn't tell whether or not it was friend or foe, the smell was unfamiliar to them. Jacob froze. His head shot up.

"No," he whispered to himself. "There's no way."

* * *

Oh dear! I am a thousand times sorry! I have been excruciatingly busy, but for your patience and dedication, I have delivered a rather scandalous scene. Please review.

Pernicious


	6. Six

Note: I've just returned to university, and with the commencement of classes comes a very busy week. And I'm afraid it will be my story that will be the one suffering. So forgive me, as the updates will not be nearly as frequent as I'd like.

Pwndheartx brings up a very good point, which shall be addressed in the very near future. Happy reading, and remember: reviewing is caring :)

Yours,  
pernicious

* * *

**Six;**

"Jacob?" Bronte poked her head around the door; she couldn't see anyone. It hadn't been long since Jacob's company had left, Bronte had woken up sometime during their visit, but kept to the bedroom, not wanting to cause any unnecessary discomfort for anyone. She hadn't thought Jacob had left with them though; that would have been quite rude, leaving without any notice. She stepped out into the living room. "Hello? Jacob? Billy?"

The bedroom door slammed shut behind her, making Bronte jump. She wheeled around to find Jacob standing there.

"Christ, Jacob," she said, pressing a hand to her chest. "You scared the hell out of me." She noticed his perturbed expression. "What's wrong?"

"Who are you?" he asked, cryptically.

"What?" Jacob advanced on her - slowly - like a predator. But not in the sensual, thrilling way that had sent gooseflesh across her skin. No, this was dangerous. The darkness of his eyes was something else altogether, not the desire he had shown for her before. Bronte could not say she was not frightened by her Jacob in that moment.

"I said who are you? No, better yet: _what_ are you?"

"What's gotten into you, Jacob?" Jacob's advance forced Bronte to retreat. To where? She didn't know. The backs of her knees bumped against the coffee table, and Bronte shuffled blindly around it, never removing her eyes from his. Her heart began to beat wildly when her back connected with a wall. And still he advanced, cornering her with his large body. "Jacob, you're scaring me."

"You reek of them!" He half-shouted at her, faltering when he saw her flinch. He pulled her to him roughly and inhaled her scent, smelling deeply into her hair. His nose wrinkled in disgust. "Gods, it's all over you." He dropped her shoulders, unaware that he had even lifted her up. She whimpered lightly and rubbed at her arms. At the sound, Jacob's face instantly softened; he cradled her face in his hands, tenderly, nudging her face apologetically with his nose in a very wolfish manner. He tilted her head, looking at her, his eyes probing. He spoke softly. "Bronte, what is going on?"

Bronte blinked back tears, whether for his hostility or his tenderness, she knew not. "I don't know what you mean," she whispered. Jacob fixer her with a concrete stare.

"You smell like a vampire."

"A - I'm sorry, a what?" She shrugged him off of her and began walking toward the living room. "A vampire? Do you hear yourself? I don't even know what you're saying! Vampires aren't real, Jac -" she stopped, and turned to him, her eyes narrowed accusingly. "I _smell_ like a vampire?"

Jacob braced himself. He hadn't meant for her to found out this way; he also hadn't anticipated her being involved with bloodsuckers, though. She didn't smell nearly as potent as any of the Cullens or their guests, but that smell, he was absolutely sure of it. And what? They just happen to find a vampire traipsing along the borderline? If there were a vampire out by the border, Jacob knew by now that Bronte had to know about it. He just hoped she'd forgive him later for his present behavior.

Jacob sighed, resigned. He sat down on the couch and patted the space next to him. "You first."

She slumped onto the couch next to him, mentally preparing herself. She spoke slowly, her voice shaky. "After the accident, my brother was comatose. He had lost so much blood; they couldn't even give him as many transfusions as he needed, there wasn't enough of his blood type. His brain was still reactive, to an extent, but the doctors had easily condemned him to death. He stayed like that for days, living off whatever blood they could scrape up, hoping to help his body make more red blood cells before his organs starved. He looked so pale." She stared off thoughtfully, remembering. "I had only just begun to remember that he was my brother when he started actually dying. Kidneys, liver, heart. I stayed with him as much as I could; he was all I had left - I couldn't even remember most of my life from before the accident. About a week later, He woke up screaming in the middle of the night. God, it was awful, writhing and clawing at himself. The attending said his brain functions must have begun coming back just as his organs were shutting down. The EKG stopped, the monitors beeped one last time. And Austen was dead; he was only 19.

"I couldn't sleep for weeks. Teas, pills, meditation. I couldn't find peace. When I slept, it was fitful, nightmarish, and I woke in the middle of the night, sweating. I kept - I kept hearing him in my head, the screaming. Sometimes I had to drink myself to sleep; it got better as the year went on. One night, some years after he died, it was particularly hard to sleep. I had more to drink than usual. And -" she chuckled "- I was sitting on the couch, and from behind me comes 'I didn't think alcoholism ran in the family.' Cheeky bastard, even dead. I thought I was hallucinating, drunk out of my mind, but he came back the next day, smiling just like he used to. He looked the same, but still so different.

"When I opened the door, I thought I might still be intoxicated. He was... sparkling, for lack of a better word. The sun, he said, made that happen. Our house was on the beach - far out on the beach - secluded, and surrounded by old, native woods. He said he'd been in the area and south in the North Carolina woods the whole time, checking up on me from afar, but afraid to get close. He said his... creator had been in the hospital when he and I arrived after the crash. He knew Austen wouldn't make it, so he... intervened. The screaming, the clawing - that was him changing. I don't know how he managed to escape the hospital or the morgue, or wherever he was.

"He said thirsting for blood - any blood - was repulsive to his mind. But his creator - I wish I could remember his name - aided him, helped him get used to the idea of hunting. They didn't hunt people though; his creator refused to kill people, and Austen was relieved. Vegetarian, he called it. That's what changed his eyes. They were gold."

Jacob's eyes widened at the mention of vegetarian vampires. He interrupted. "Was his name Carlisle?"

Bronte looked thoughtful for a moment, turning the name over in her mind, before finally saying, "No, that wasn't it."

"Emmett? Jasper? Edward?"

Bronte laughed. "No, none of those either. Do you want me to get on the internet and look up names?"

Jacob chuckled. "No, no, I'm sorry, go on." Bronte kept on about her relationship with her brother; Jacob tuned in and out, wondering about her brother's "creator." Of course it wasn't Carlisle, he tended to keep his creations as his family, and he didn't think anyone else in their coven had the stones to change anyone else.

Jacob wondered if she even knew her brother was in town. Assuming that the vampire stalking the border was, in fact, her brother. He interrupted again. "Where is he now?"

Bronte looked mildly put out, but obliged him. "Last time I checked he was still at the house, mostly staying inside, keeping busy. He was talking about doing some traveling, Scandinavia and northern places, mostly. I haven't seen him since I moved."

Jacob looked ahead, gears turning. He scratched his jaw thoughtfully. Bronte placed her hand on his forearm, breaking his train of thought.

"So what's all this smelling business?"

**;**

After Jacob had finished telling the old Quiliete legend, he sat patiently, trying to gauge Bronte's reaction through her lack of facial expression. He tested the waters by taking one of her hands. Encouraged when she didn't pull away, he kneaded her palm gently. She smiled responsively. With her free hand, she rubbed her forehead.

"All this time I've been trying to cope with the existence of vampires, and here I am in the company of... a werewolf?"

"Not actually," Jacob corrected. "We don't get taken over during full moons and infect everyone with our bite, that's fairy tale stuff." Bronte scoffed audibly, disbelieving the fact that he could lump vampires and pseudo-werewolves into a category unrelated to fairy tales. "It's more like phasing. We can control it, it links our minds together as a pack. That's who came over today, part of the pack."

"So on these patrol things, you can read each other's minds?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. There can be no secrets in a pack." Bronte made a face.

"Ew, no privacy." Jacob laughed.

"It's a small price to pay, I guess."

"Well what about..." she let the question hang, the faintest hint of a blush creeping into her tanned skin. Jacob grinned.

"That too."

"Oh my god," she said, her blush, deepening.

"There is something, though," Jacob began, slowly, "that I need to tell you, about the... habits of wolves."

"Habits?" she asked.

Jacob stammered. "Um, well, yeah. You see, to increase the chance that the next generation will be able to phase, the wolves have a special way of, uh, picking mates, based on qualities that will strengthen the pack and the bloodline. It's called imprinting."

Bronte looked curious.

"It's like love at first sight, only stronger. It's an unbreakable bond, mental and physical. Since the legends started in the Quileute tribe, the best chance of imprinting would occur on this Quileute reservation, then probably on other reservations. It's rare for it to happen outside of the tribe. Well, I mean it's rare to begin with. Not everyone in the tribe imprints."

"Why not?"

"We don't know. Maybe they never meet their mate, maybe their bloodline isn't strong enough? It's not really something you can study with science, you know." He smiled at her. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, which he noted she did sometimes when she was nervous. The fat that she was nervous eased his own nerves slightly; not quite enough though. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and pressed on.

"But, um, being an Alpha male, it's imperative that I mate, that I imprint. But I never imprinted. For the longest time, I thought something was wrong with me. But then it finally happened. I, uh, I imprinted."

Bronte processed the information slowly, her brain working over each word, digesting its meaning. Her heart sped up considerably, before seeming to stop altogether. "Then," she began, unable to finish.

"Yes. You're my mate."

**;**

"Shit."

Jacob sat on his bed, trying to be patient. He had done exactly what he had promised himself not to do. He had dropped the equivalent of Nagasaki in her lap, _and_ he had yelled at her. Not to mention he all but declared his undying, evolutionary love for her, and possibly the fact that he would not be able to live without her. It was all in her hands now; she could accept him, or leave him. Jacob tried to cope with the fact that when his bedroom door opened, Bronte might not be there.

"Fuck."

**;**

"Shit."

Bronte was pacing. Pacing quite furiously. She could scarcely grasp everything she had just heard. First vampires, then werewolves, then werewolves that were bound to be in love with her for all eternity? She let out an exasperated sigh. Unbelievable.

"Shit. Shit. Shit."

Jacob had given Bronte use of the living room to ponder all that had happened today. She was in turmoil. The whole thing was wrong in so many ways. Jacob was so young, although all but legally he was about 25 years old. But was that supposed to justify being involved with her own student? The thought didn't appeal to her conscience as much as she thought it should. She knew she wanted Jacob.

She sighed. She was in no mood to argue with herself. She'd deal with it all later.

**;**

Bronte pressed her ear to the door. Hearing nothing, she opened the door enough to see inside.

Her heart warmed. Jacob lie on his bed, snoring quietly, mouth slightly agape. His feet hung off the end of the bed, his jeans bunched up around his calves. Above, the fan spun lopsided overhead, producing a cool, variable breeze in the small room.

Bronte sat on the side of the bed, watching Jacob sleep peacefully. The black waves of his hair lay about his head, silken. She fingered the strands, letting them run between her fingers like fine, pulverized sand. She observed the planes of his face, now much more relaxed than usual. It almost made him look younger, vulnerable. She thought about what he had said, his imprinting thing, love at first sight. She wasn't quite sure how she felt about it, but she realized that she couldn't really help it; he was bound to her. She may not love Jacob now, she admitted; but as she gazed at him, she couldn't help but smile. "This isn't impossible," she whispered to herself.

Tired, both physically and emotionally, Bronte climbed onto the bed, nestling herself in the curve of Jacob's body.

A lazy smiled crossed Jacob's face, and he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into his warmth. He buried his face in her neck, nuzzling, and inhaled the scent of her that he would - on his life - never forget.

* * *

Please review!

Yours,  
pernicious


	7. Seven

Sacrilege, I know. I haven't updated in over a month. _Please_ try to understand though, I am unbelievably busy and uninspired as of late. But I do believe you shall enjoy this chapter :)

Happy R

Bronte awoke slowly, groggy from the lateness of her nap. She was immensely content. A satisfying warmth engulfed her completely, and she snuggled deeper into its comfort.

Though, she was slightly startled by the deep rumble from behind her. She strained her neck slightly, and saw the large form of Jacob nestled into her back. She saw the arm wrapped around her, and subsequently realized the source of heat emanating from her stomach was his large, warm hand. She couldn't decide whether to extract herself from the giant's arms, or remain in his embrace - she couldn't even made up her mind about what had happened... today? Yesterday? Bronte realized she had no idea how long they had slept, and figured she should probably find out what time it was. The arm around her grew tighter. Well, she thought, I've been putting things off lately anyway. And so she scooted back against him, wanting to feel the entirety of his warmth.

A groan resonated from Jacob. She felt him breathe deeply, stretching his legs off the bed, and he pulled her closer still, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. He rubbed the length of her neck with his nose, his hot breath tickling. She squirmed reflexively, giggling. He nuzzled deeper into her neck, and she swatted at his shoulder. He ignored her and continued.

"Jacob," she whined. "Stop it."

Jacob purred into her ear, and his hot breath washed over her already flushed cheek. "Say it again."

A coy smile crossed Bronte's face, unseen to Jacob. "Stop it?" Jacob growled, sneaking his hand under the hem of her shirt, his fingers sinking into the cool flesh beneath her breasts. She scolded him with a harsh whisper. "Jacob!"

Jacob chuckled into her ear, satisfied. He turned her around so she was facing him. She avoided his eyes; the intensity with which he looked at her made her blush from head to toe. He dragged his thumb tenderly under her brow, feeling the ridge of the discolored scar that lay there. He continued, following down to her cheek, where he felt the warmth of her blush. Her bottom lip, under his finger, was smooth, plump, and inviting, and she returned his chaste kiss. When she felt his tongue, however, snake its way across her lips, she pulled away.

"Jacob," she protested. "There are so many things we need to talk about. This whole -" she paused, uncertain "- wolf thing is new to me. I-I'm going to need some help understanding all of this... understanding what's to be expected of me."

Jacob was beaming. He took her hand in his, kissing the back of it. He rubbed her knuckled slowly, massaging the whole of her hand. Had she just chosen to receive him - to be his mate? Nothing and no one in the world could have made him happier, not even Bel-

Who?

Jacob lost his train of thought looking at the room reflected in her eyes. He was still smiling widely at her, and now a look of mild confusion became her face. He enlightened her.

"You haven't even seen me phase."

* * *

Jacob sprinted - in comparison to a human, that is - into the woods behind the house, dragging Bronte by the hand. Bronte tried to keep pace, tripping and stumbling, but when she thought she'd had enough, he stopped and faced her, putting his hands on her shoulders. He rubbed circles with his thumbs, easing some of her tension. He ducked his head, seeking out her downcast eyes; they held all the fear and anxiety he had anticipated, he just hadn't expected it to hurt him as much as it did.

"Please," he whispered. "Don't be afraid of me."

Bronte scoffed, trying to lighten the mood. "Nothing could be worse than your eating habits."

Admiring her efforts, Jacob gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and began backing away from her. "Stay there, and don't move! Billy would kill me if I lost you in the woods."

Bronte chuckled. She watched Jacob curiously as he removed his shirt. He stood about ten feet away, and through the tree branches, small, misshapen patches of light touched his skin like large flecks of gold foil. Bronte was stunned though, when Jacob began to unzip his jeans.

"Jacob! What on earth are you doing?"

Jacob shrugged as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening. "If I phase with my clothes on, they'll be ripped to shreds. And these are the only clean pants I have left!" He breathed, whining. "Listen, it's fine. Just look at me."

Bronte decided that Jacob meant for her to look him in the eyes, whether or not that was his intention. Bronte took a deep breath, concentrating on the brown depths of the eyes ahead of her. She was vigilant in her attempt; she rolled laws and complex theorems around in her mind, ignoring her growing blush when she heard the telltale sound of his jeans hitting the soft, earthy floor. He stood before her, wearing only a mischievous smirk; Bronte itched for a witty comment, but instead held fast to his eyes.

She wasn't exactly sure how it had happened, but within seconds, Bronte was trying to convince herself that the massive creature before her was, in fact, Jacob Black. She was rooted to the ground like the countless conifers that surrounded her, her will buried deep underground as the horse-sized wolf approached her. Her gaze was locked still to the place in which Jacob's eyes should have been, but Bronte realized that - even though no longer human - the warmth and soul of his eyes remained. A warm tear slipped from Bronte's eye, and the wolf caught it halfway down her cheek with his cool, wet nose. The contact startled her, but the feeling of the fur was luxurious. She tested its texture, sinking her hands into one large shoulder. The hair was sumptuous and lush, and she stroked him gently, beginning to smile.

Jacob dropped to the ground and rolled onto his back, exposing his stomach. His tongue hung out, and he looked at her expectantly. Bronte giggled, and obliged him, kneeling down and scratching his belly. "You big puppy. If you think I'm going to do this for you when you're human, you are sorely mistaken."

Jacob rolled over, fixing her with large, sorrowful eyes. He whined.

"You know, I might keep you this way." Jacob cocked his head. "Just think about it, this way, you can't make smart comments or cause a fuss."

Jacob barked loudly at her, shoving her from her sitting position with his shoulder. She fell backwards, landing on her rear on a cool bed of pine needles. Jacob crawled over her, low to the ground, his nose sniffing at every inch of her body as he went. Bronte shivered at the coolness of his nose against her neck, and giggled when he released his breath into her hair.

"Jacob," she laughed. "Stop it, you dog, that tickles!"

But the dog that was Jacob was no longer above her. A pleasant weight settled onto her, and she reached for the place where his head had been; instead of finding fur, her fingers sunk into the lengths of his hair, his human hair. His cool nose had been replaced by his hot mouth, and Bronte again shivered. The breath in her ear made her body tingle and her heart beat frantically, and when he bit her, she gasped lightly.

It wasn't until her hands moved to his shoulders, that she realized Jacob was completely and utterly nude. Her heart skipped a beat in surprise, and she suddenly found herself extremely aroused. Jacob, sensing her state, growled and pulled away from her neck, looking into her flushed face. He held one side of her face tenderly, and she leaned into his touch, one hand covering his own. The other hand scratched down his side, and Jacob squirmed when the pressure passed over the nerves in his ribs.

He kissed her soundly, leaving her warm and feverish all over. Bronte continued raking her hands down his body, and Jacob moaned into her mouth as she kneaded his hipbone with her thumb. Jacob pulled her hands from his body to place them above her head, and he rid her of her shirt swiftly, casting it to the side. He pulled at the claps of her bra, unhooking them with some amount of difficulty, but he grinned in his triumph, pulling her bra away with his teeth; his nose gliding down the valley of her cleavage made her shiver. When Bronte tried to bring her hands back down to his body, Jacob again grabbed them, this time pinning them above her head with one large hand. Bronte squirmed, but Jacob shushed her, kissing her on the nose.

Hands held tightly, Bronte could only sigh contently as Jacob kneaded her breast with one hand. His rough palms scratched over her smooth skin, reacquainting her with the countless nerve endings that lived there. He prodded her gently with the end of his nose, acquainting himself with the dips and curves of her body. Her stomach jumped when she felt the coolness of his nose at her navel, and he grinned at her sensitivity.

Jacob relinquished his hold on Bronte's wrists, but she found herself keeping them there, watching as Jacob unbuttoned her jeans with only his brilliantly white teeth. Jacob got to his knees, pulling her jeans off slowly. He extracted one leg at a time, letting his hands admire the softness of her skin. As Jacob reached for her cotton panties, Bronte caught a glimpse of his erection, and her gut leapt in anxiety. The warmth between her legs grew further when Jacob slid her underwear off, and the cool air against her last exposed bit of skin made her sigh.

Jacob crawled back up to her face, kissing her everywhere. He kissed her lips slowly as he settled between her thighs, his tip pressed against her entrance. Bronte braced herself, grabbing onto his arm. Jacob pushed himself into her, and she moaned as his last few inches slipped in. Jacob steadied himself, dizzy from the heat and tightness of her body. He extracted himself nearly all the way, and pushed back into her torturously slow, watching the way her back arched up, and savoring the sound of her exquisite sigh when he filled her completely.

Bronte was near star-struck. Jacob was deep within her, touching somewhere between this life and the next. The gentle way his thumb stroked her cheek almost brought tears to her eyes. She felt him increase his pace, and her eyes fluttered close, the sensations inside her body overwhelming her. Each of Jacob's thrusts exploded behind her eyes in a swirl of woodsy colors, combined with the smell of pine and bark from their surroundings. Bronte wrapped a leg around him, high on his back, the now open space urging him to delve deeper. Her breath hitched.

Jacob buried his head in Bronte's neck, inhaling the sexy, sweaty smell of her skin. He bit down on her collarbone, marking her, marking his mate; Bronte clawed at his back, her nails leaving angry red streaks that healed instantly.

Jacob snaked a hand between their bodies, and found himself rubbing Bronte's most sensitive spot. She moaned loudly, speaking his name, and her muscles contracted around him reflexively. Jacob couldn't stifle his groan; he increased his speed and the depths of his strokes, his hips meeting hers off the ground.

Bronte felt the tingling in her stomach spread down toward her legs, and she knew she was close. She reached for Jacob, pulling his head down for a breathless, desperate kiss, and her body began to shake. Her muscles spasmed, and her back arched high, the length of her torso pressed tightly to his. Jacob growled deep in his throat, and his own release began somewhere amidst hers. Bronte heard her name faintly, somewhere past her erratic breathing and the blood pounding in her ears. Her limbs tingled as if asleep, although they felt very much alive.

Jacob collapsed atop her momentarily, before rolling onto his side, bringing Bronte to settle in front of him. He stroked her wild hair, smoothing it down her back, feeling its softness with his fingers. She rested her head against his heaving chest, and he kneaded the nape of her neck. Bronte purred appreciatively.

Bronte subconsciously ran her fingers over the bite mark on her collar. Only somewhat ashamed, Jacob nuzzled his nose against her cheek, giving her small kisses. He kissed the bite, and spoke to her quite softly.

"You're my mate now," he whispered, looking at her. "Nothing can keep us apart. I love you, Bronte."

Bronte placed a hand on his cheek, and leaned in for a chaste kiss.

"I know."

* * *

Gods, I'm so sorry, again. But please review.


	8. Eight

So I've finally found some free time to do some writing. I was going to wrap the story up, but then some thoughts popped into my head for this chapter. So expect a few more chapters. So enjoy, and be sure to review! I'm also thinking of revising the title soon, so be sure to watch out for that.

Yours, Pernicious

* * *

**Eight;**

Bronte lay on her couch, watching the news absently, her head resting in the cold lap of her brother, Austen. Since their reunion, Bronte saw her beloved brother frequently. Jacob complained her house smelled. Austen complained her boyfriend smelled. Although they argued, Jacob and Austen had developed a healthy, if not disturbingly odd, relationship.

"You never liked dogs when we were kids, Bronte."

Jacob pouted. "It's unfortunate your parents named you after a girl, Austen, Jane Austen."

"Stop it," Bronte sighed. "The both of you. Jacob, aren't you supposed to be in school?"

Bronte had resigned her position at Forks High School, despite the administrators' requests to complete the remaining two months of the term. She spent most of her days in the company of Jacob or Austen, her bonds between each of them strengthening with each passing day. Austen took her into the wilderness, up mountains and into valleys, and they lay in green clearings, the sun warming Bronte's bones while Austen glittered serenely beside her.

It was in one of these clearings that she met Austen's creator, a distractingly handsome creature by the name of Legault de Lencret. He was a tanned shade of brown, darker than she or her brother, and he shimmered like burnt copper in the dwindling sun. His golden eyes were striking, as were his high cheekbones and thick brows. Moroccan by heritage, French by citizenship, he had a rich mix of an accent, only adding to his mysterious allure. Bronte squirmed under his gaze; he gave her a predatory look that unraveled her despite his known vegetarian lifestyle. He extended his hand in introduction, but instead of shaking, he bowed over it, pressing his icy cool lips to it, whispering, "chérie."

Her skin still tingled the next day, Legault's breath a haunting, icy whisper across her skin.

Jacob, on the other hand, took her to the reservation, and they spent time with Billy and the pack. Emily and her kindness enamored her, and she liked Leah despite her cynicism - she was truly a bright girl. And the boys were something else entirely. Bronte had never had a large family, but on Sunday mornings when Emily made breakfast for the entire pack and company, she felt a warmth swell in her heart in a place she hadn't known existed. They welcomed her as part of their family, their huge, loving family.

When Bronte entered Emily's house, Embry was upon her instantly. He picked her up and greeted her with a large, sloppy kiss on the cheek.

"Morning, baby sister!"

Bronte arched a dark eyebrow, unenthused. "Baby sister, Embry?"

"Yeah, well, I mean technically I am older than you."

Bronte laughed, and pinched Embry's cheek like an infant. "Yes, well I believe legally I'll always be older than you, baby brother." A chuckle drifted across the house, and Bronte spotted Emily waltzing toward her. Bronte met her with a loving hug, as if she had known Emily for years. She squeezed lightly.

"Bronte," she said in her ear. "It's always so good to see you."

"Thank you, Emily. I'm always happy to be here."

The girls parted with a smile, and Emily went back to preparing the feast required to feed the pack. Bronte took up her usual position next to Jacob, and watched everyone react with one another. It was like watching the family she never had, and she fit easily among them, in between the childish boys and the patient women that took care of them. She settled against Jacob's side, sighing contently; she truly felt at peace with these people.

She felt a nudge at her waist, and looked down into the face of young Claire. Quiet and doe-eyed, she held up a plate full of steaming food, offering to Bronte with innocent silence. Bronte took the plate graciously, and Claire beamed at her with a toothy smile, before running to Quil and hiding behind his legs. Bronte smiled, feeling small tears prick behind her eyes; she looked to Jacob next to her, who squeezed her hand before pulling her sideways to him, kissing her temple tenderly.

**;**

Sunday evening, after breakfast, two lunches, and dinner; after drinks and laughter; after goodbyes and hugs and kisses, Jacob and Bronte headed home to Bronte's house. She sighed as Jacob opened the car door for her, and Bronte stepped out the car, snaking her arms around his waist. Jacob closed the door, and pushed Bronte so that she leaned back against the car, and he enclosed her in his arms, his warmth spreading through her body. She buried her head in his chest, smelling his earthy scent, and hearing the thudding drum of his heart.

"I love being around them, the pack. It's like having a family again."

Jacob chuckled, the noise resonating through both their bodies. "If by family, you mean a bunch of rowdy brothers."

Bronte squeezed him, attempting to scold him. "They're a sweet bunch, even if they are childish."

Jacob rubbed at the back her neck, and she purred appreciatively. Jacob dipped his head low, kissing just below her ear. "Let's go inside," he murmured.

Bronte hummed. "Just a little longer, it feels so nice outside." She pulled his head down to hers, her tongue tasting his lips before kissing him slowly, sensuously. Jacob pulled back for air, his darkened eyes searching hers momentarily; he returned to her lips with a growl, hoisting her up against the car, so that her legs dangled freely before he pulled them up to his waist, holding them there by her thighs. Bronte's hands slithered up his chest, underneath his shirt, using her nails to trace the dips between his muscles. Jacob was hardening between her legs quickly, and his arousal only fueled her own. She ground her hips against him, feeling him twitch in his pants. Jacob shuddered, sighing hotly into her ear.

"Should I take you here, or inside?"

Bronte tugged at his earlobe with her teeth. "Why should I only pick one?"

Jacob growled and flattened her against the car, dropping her legs to tangle his hands in her hair. He pressed his forehead to hers.

"Woman, you are the devil in a dress. I'm taking you inside, now."

Bronte conceded and wrapped her arms around his neck. She giggled as Jacob lifted her and carried her to the door. Jacob followed right behind her into the dark house, his hands at her hips, his lips at her shoulders. He stopped suddenly though, frozen just after the door shut. He lifted his head, sniffing the air.

"Bronte, has Austen been here today?"

Bronte's face was perplexed in the dark. "No, why? Jacob, what are you talking about -"

Jacob flipped on the lights, and there in the living room, making himself comfortable on the couch, sat Legault de Lencret. A long arm stretched along the back of the couch, his elegant hand dark brown in contrast to the light upholstery. He rested one ankle on the other knee; his demeanor was all collected, pursed lips full and curved. His dark brows rose imperceptibly when he saw Bronte with Jacob.

A snarl rippled through Jacob at the sight on the unknown vampire. Bronte placed a hand on his chest and intervened.

"Legault? What are you doing here?" A surprised look crossed Jacob's face, followed by jealousy.

"So abrupt, mon chérie." His rich accent filled the room, making her dizzy with its sensual, spicy notes. He stepped close to Bronte, taking both her hands in his strong, cold ones, and kissing her on both cheeks. Again, he left a cool, tingling sensation where his lips met her skin. "After our first meeting, I thought I might pay you a visit. I was truly enchanted by your company."

Jacob growled loudly, and Legault poked his head around, as if just having noticed Jacob even existed.

"And who is this?"

Jacob stepped forward, wrapping an arm possessively around Bronte's waist, effectively pulling her out of Legault's hands. His contact created a rift in the lush atmosphere surrounding Legault, and Bronte was able to focus better. She blinked several times, clearing her head from the thick, warm fog suffocating her thoughts.

"Jacob Black," Jacob stated threateningly. Legault ignored the introduction, and was instead staring openly at the arm woven around Bronte. He gave a disdainful snort at the sight, and sauntered off toward the front door. He cast a backward glance, eyes suggestive as he studied her.

"When you are -" he paused, searching for words, "- more inclined to receive me as your guest, little one, I shall return. Bonsoir."

The door shut behind Legault, leaving an embarrassed Bronte in the arms of a fuming Jacob.

"Friend of yours?"

**;**

"He's a friend of my brother. I met him last week in the woods with Austen."

Jacob's scowl was something Bronte had never seen before.

"Listen, Jacob, it's nothing to worry about -"

"Nothing to worry about? Of course it's something to worry, Bronte! Did you see the way he looked at you? And that whole 'mon chérie' thing? God, I'm sick just thinking about it."

"I don't think he meant -"

Jacob started pacing. "Christ, I need Edward. I need to know what he was thinking. Well, I mean I know what he was thinking, but I -" He cupped Bronte's face, gently, in contrast to his mood. "This can't happen to you, too."

"What on Earth are you saying, Jacob?"

"Bella. This happened to Bella, once, a long time ago, when she was still human. Some tracker with an obsession, hell-bent on hunting her down."

Bronte laughed skeptically. "I doubt he wants to kill me, Jacob."

"I know," Jacob said gravely. "He wants to do worse."

"Jacob, listen to yourself. This is silly."

"I need to talk to Austen." Jacob made for the door, then stopped. "But not tonight. Tonight, I need to be with you."

Jacob crossed the living room in a few steps, and lifted Bronte up into a bruising kiss. The power of his arms engulfed her, and she felt strangled, but still somehow safe. She didn't think there was really anything to worry about concerning Legault; there was however, something about him that unnerved her. His striking fingers lingered in her mind, and her hand tingled again at the thought of his lips against it. Her brother had acted calmly though, at the exchange. If Legault was truly a problem, she felt Austen would have intervened, or even noticed. And yet she couldn't help recalling how his gaze had made the very essence of her being begin to slip away. Like Edward's mind reading, Legault had some unique power, some dark power, and he was using it against her. She felt a shiver run down her spine, despite the gracious heat provided by her wolfish lover.

Bronte was reminded of his presence when a low moan broke from her mouth, the cause Jacob biting at the flesh below her collarbone. Her head lolled to the side, her mind hazy, and she soon forgot about Legault as Jacob's hand drifted underneath her gauzy dress, and under the waistband of her underwear, kneading her hip with his thumb.

Jacob pulled her close, pressing her into the wall; she feared she might slip through it. This possessive side of Jacob was one that Bronte had not encountered, and she found she liked the way he pulled her face closer to his still, trying with all his might to permeate her skin. He lifted her then, each hand cupping a buttock, and she wound her legs around his slim waist. He carried her off to the bedroom, where he proceeded to claim her wholly, where she let him possess her completely. Several times.

* * *

I'm so happy I've been able to post another chapter. Please do me the courtesy of reviewing, it helps so much.

Yours, Pernicious.


	9. Nine

You have my sincerest apologies for the late updates, but I hope to wrap this story up within the next few chapters, so be prepared! Also, I haven't been able to edit this chapter thoroughly, so please forgive any mistakes you see. Love to you all.

Yours,  
Pernicious

* * *

**Nine;**

Bronte awoke sometime in the middle of the night, to the feeling of eyes watching her. She looked to Jacob; he snored deeply next to her, duvet pushed down to his waist. She climbed out of bed, grabbing her robe from the hook behind the door, and padded into the kitchen. It was unusually chilly in the house, and Bronte clutched her robe to her, the silk letting her body heat escape freely. She filled a glass halfway with water, and took gentle sips, willing her unease to dissipate.

She heard a ruffle from somewhere in the living room.

"Jacob?" she questioned quietly. She spied a curtain in the other room, billowing ever so lightly. Strange, Bronte though, for her to have any windows open at this time of year, when the wind still ran cold. It was just cracked, and she closed it soundly, turning the latch to ensure its security.

She sauntered back to the kitchen and filled her glass to the brim with water, drinking a bit more greedily. Her eyes peered into the darkness, picking out shapes of furniture, and the translucent gauze of the curtains, through which the moonlight filtered into a green glow. She noticed again, misplaced motion, and sighed heavily. She'd curse Jacob in the morning for leaving her windows open.

She reached for the open window, when she realized it was closed.

She stood, feeling the material between her fingers, when she felt a chill breeze across the back of her neck. Her hair stood on end, and her skin erupted into goosebumps. The lips at her neck were not unwelcome, until she felt the teeth, sharper than a kitchen blade. Her breath died in her throat.

"Shh, _mon amour,_ do not call for him."

Bronte scarcely believed she could call for anyone at the moment. His teeth raked her sensitive skin, dangerously close to breaking the surface. Her heart beat weakly, and as he spoke, her thoughts were drowned in that thick, sensual fog that accompanied his voice, and his touch.

"He will not keep me away from you, my pet."

His hands caressed her shoulders, the frigid temperature rushing through the thin silk. His hands drifted in, toward her neck, toward the hemline of her robe. He peeled it away from her front slowly, and pushed the glass from Bronte's hand, allowing it to crash dully to the floor, the water absorbing quickly into the thick rug. His hands left a hard, frozen trail as his fingertips drifted from her collar, between her breasts, to her navel, before settling at her hips. He pulled her flush against him, his tongue tasting her flesh, under which her heart still thudded at an unusually languid pace.

"You are meant to be mine, _chérie."_

And white pain tore through her soul.

**;**

"Bronte!"

Bronte thrashed wildly, her eyes shut tightly. Jacob attempted to grab her arms, to no avail. He instead grabbed her face, pulling it to him, willing her to wake up.

"Bronte, god damnit, wake up!"

Bronte froze, and her lids fluttered, eyes searching, before they landed on Jacob. She lunged forward into him.

"Jacob," she cried. Her sobs were dry, choked, and wordless. Jacob leaned against the headboard, pulling Bronte with him. He smoothed her tangled hair, kissing the top of her head, rocking her slightly. When she had sufficiently quieted, Jacob took her chin, and forced her to meet his eyes.

"Now tell me," he said softly. "What's wrong?" Bronte sniffed.

"I'm afraid now, Jacob."

"That's it," he stated, exiting the bed. He clothed himself in a pair of black sweatpants she kept for him, and headed off toward the phone. Bronte grabbed her robe from where it hung, on the back of the door, and made her way to the kitchen. Fetching a glass of water, Bronte couldn't help the peculiar feeling of deja vu that washed over her. She heard the muted ring through the kitchen phone next to her.

"Edward, it's Jacob."

Bronte heard a faint murmur.

"We have a problem."

She caught some masculine mumbling, the slight elevation in pitch indicated a question.

"Serious enough."

The next voice was female and clear, ordering a quick "hang tight, Jacob."

Jacob hung up the phone, exhaling a deep breath.

**;**

Whoever Jacob had called had gotten to them unearthly fast. Within ten minutes, Bronte heard tires screeching down her long driveway. Jacob was first to the door.

Bronte though, was delayed in the middle of the room when her foot sunk into a patch of wet carpet with quiet 'squish'. Deja vu washed over her again, and she felt herself shiver in the warm room.

She didn't dwell on it long, because now on her front porch stood three of the most breathtaking people she had ever seen. They did not bother to conceal themselves from the sunlight, and were thus glittering like multifaceted diamonds, as she often saw happened to Austen.

They were vampires.

They entered, and the smallest one flitted across the living room like a ballerina, where she planted a kiss on each of Bronte's cheeks. "Hello, Bronte! I'm Alice, we're here to help. We're going to be great friends, I can tell." She finished with a wink, before gliding away further into the house.

If she were going to play host to vampires, she may as well make it a party. Bronte spoke timidly to Jacob. "Should I call Austen?"

The male vampire spoke up. "That might be wise." He reached for Bronte's hand, which he shook politely and delicately. "My name is Edward Cullen. It's nice to meet you."

Bronte's mind tingled at the name Edward Cullen. She searched her memories for any mention of the name, but came up empty-handed. Edward smiled knowingly at her and moved aside, allowing the final member of their party to make Bronte's acquaintance.

Her features were not striking like Alice's, or roguishly handsome like Edward's, but her plain-cut hair and straight nose held an elegance Bronte could not put into words. Despite the granite surface of her skin, she gave a shy smile that crinkled her golden eyes - all glowing, all ethereal. She embraced Bronte, touching her cold cheek to Bronte's warm one, the way a best friend or sister would after a long absence.

"Bronte, I've heard so much about you. I'm Bella, it's so nice to meet you."

Bronte struggled to catch her breath.

Bella? Bella Swann? Or rather, Bella Cullen?

Bronte had heard about Bella from Emily and Sam and Quil on various occasions. Jacob's Bella, the Bella that had claimed a piece of his heart forever, broken as it was. Bronte had resented Bella for hurting her Jacob, for misleading his poor, blind heart; Bronte found herself lost for words though, staring into the face of beauty itself. Bella reached for her hair, her fingers stroking the dark curls one by one.

"She's so pretty, Jacob." Bronte felt awkward and embarrassed; Bella spoke as if Bronte were not standing but inches from her.

"I told you she was," chimed Alice from across the room.

Edward seemed to sense Bronte's unease and delicately pulled Bella to him. "So tell me, Jacob, what's the problem?"

**;**

"Well, we'll have to dispose of him, like we did James."

"How will we find him though?"

"Don't worry, I believe our help has just arrived."

The front door opened, and Austen sauntered in, only somewhat surprised by the other vampires in the room.

"Oh, he looks just like her!"

"Alice!"

"I'm sorry, but they could have been twins!"

Bronte embraced her brother. "Austen, this is Alice, Edward, and Bella. We need your help."

"With what?"

Jacob stood from his chair, nervous and erratic. "Your friend! Your goddamn Frenchie friend wants Bronte!"

"Legault?"

"Your goddamn Frenchie frie - what, do you have more than one?"

"Jacob, stop it."

"No. Bronte, this is a big deal."

Edward stepped in. "What kind of power does Legault have over you, Austen?"

"Seduction. Legault is very persuasive."

Jacob's patience was wearing thin. "What, you mean he just _talked_ you into letting him have your sister?"

Austen shot him a look. "No, that's not it. It's the contact; as long as he's in contact with you, there really isn't anything you can do."

"So that's it? He says it, and you do it?"

"Not quite. He makes you want to do it. He puts the thought in your head, and you think it was all your idea to begin with. Even without the contact, his presence is intoxicating."

"So what would we need to take him out?"

"You'd need someone with a very strong will. Or a shield."

Heads turned toward Bella. Edward moved in front of her. "No, I see what you're thinking, and it's not happening."

Bella stepped around him. "Edward, I want to do this. I'm the only one that can really be of use."

"But he wants to use you as bait."

"I know. That's okay, I want to help Bronte."

Edward sighed, searching his wife's face for signs of hesitation. He knew Bella could do what needed to be done, but the thought of putting her in harm's way made his gut clench. His shoulders dropped, and he conceded with a frustrated "fine."

**;**

Bronte stood in the kitchen, long after everyone had left after the huddle over the coffee table in the living room, and the discussion of the plans. She crossed her arms, then uncrossed one, chewing on her thumb nail anxiously. She fidgeted with a lock of her hair, fingered a cut in the granite countertop, anything to keep her mind off what was going on around her. She was so distracted, she didn't realize Jacob approached her until she felt his arms wrap around her waist and his chest pressed to her back. He bent down toward her ear, nuzzling softly.

"Shh. Stop fidgeting, everything's going to be fine."

"But what if it's not?"

"It will be."

"But if it's not?"

Jacob spun her around, his eyes seeking hers in her downturned face. "I won't let anything happen to you, Bronte. I can't let anything happen to you. You have to trust me, and believe that I can do this for you, that I can keep you safe." His thumbs traced lazy circles over her cheekbones, and her eyes fluttered closed. She felt him kiss each of her closed lids, and she sighed gently.

"I know, Jacob. I trust you, this is just really weird for me. If I had known last year that right now I'd have a teenage werewolf protecting me from a seductive vampire, I might have thought I'd turned into a complete basket case."

Jacob smirked. "I think you may be a basket case anyway."

Bronte swatted his arm and pushed him away with a scoff, which earned her a growl. Jacob came back toward her, pressing her into the counter behind her. His hands found her shoulders, smoothing over them and down her arms and to her hands. He tried to pull them around his neck, but Bronte was short; his solution was to hoist her onto the counter, where he finally found her lips. Her body was soft, pliable, and Jacob loved the way her form seemed to fit perfectly against his own. He could feel her soft curves through the thin material of her tank, and he disposed of it, if only to feel the contrast of her cool skin under his hot hands. The heat of his lips ran from her now bare shoulder to her throat and neck. His teeth found the sensitive skin beneath her ear, and he bit down, skin breaking and bruising, and Bronte moaned loudly at the blend of pain and euphoria that Jacob caused.

Bronte was grateful for the distraction Jacob was providing her. Her mind had been reeling with the countless of things that could possibly go wrong on this 'mission' that they had. Everything in her life was so scattered - her job, her family - the only thing present every day was Jacob. He was her rock. She had taken advantage of him at the beginning, when she had believed they were just a fling, and Jacob was just a love-struck teenager with an over-productive pituitary gland. But his loyalty and passion had surprised her, the way he shared his deepest secrets with her and invited her into the pack as if she were one of them. Jacob had professed his love for her many times, both deliberate and habitual, and Bronte had repeatedly looked at him sadly, with the assurance that her feelings would deepen in time.

She realized now might be the time.

* * *

Review!


	10. TEN

This is the FINAL installment of this story. I can't even begin to apologize for the unannounced hiatus. Anyway, to anyone who still reads - enjoy! Also, I'm considering a title revision, heads up.

**Ten;**

"You're not going too, are you, Jacob?"

Bronte sat cross-legged on Jacob's small bed, chewing her lip nervously. Jacob was drifting around the room, making calls to Seth and Embry to gather the others. He wore his typical black sweats and nothing else; to an outsider, he would be seemingly lounging about the house, but Bronte knew better.

He sent her an apologetic look as he finished off his conversation with Seth.

"-yeah. Yeah, be at Emily's in five minutes. Yeah, they'll be there. Bye."

He chucked the phone somewhere behind him in the room and then clambered onto the bed in front of her, pulling her close to him. She was looking at him, her eyes pleading like a child. He sighed heavily. The last few days had been trying for all of them, putting all the pieces of their plans together, running through alternate strategies, and settling on a last-ditch escape route. Things were getting very real, very quickly.

"I know what you're thinking," he said. "We're going to get him. It's going to be fine."

"And you? Are you going to be fine?"

Jacob's eyes crinkled a little as he jested. "I didn't know you cared so much."

Bronte swatted him on the shoulder. "Oh, you know I care about you, you great oaf."

"Do you?"

"Well of course! I've accepted all this bizarre wolf and pack nonsense, this imprinting deal, and a vampire brother whose vampire friend wants to kill me or worse. And now here you are, leaping off to go risk your life and the lives of your friends to fight him! For God's sake, Jacob, I love you, but this -"

Bronte was interrupted when Jacob flung himself forward onto her. The crashed down on the bed, attached at the lips. Jacob's arms were around her, holding her tightly, and his lips were quickly making her forget what her whole tirade had been about. He pulled back just a touch; he was beaming.

"I knew you'd say it someday," he said, his lips ghosting over hers.

"Say what," she asked breathlessly.

"That you love me."

Realization dawned on her face, and she her cheeks colored before she smiled. "Well, I guess I do. Love you, that is."

He went to descend upon her again, but Bronte stopped him.

"Ah, ah, ah, don't you have to get going?"

"We," he said, pulling her up from the bed and setting her on her feet. "Are going to Emily's. You'll stay there with her there until we're done."

Bronte frowned slightly as the gravity of the situation set in. She blinked as Jacob kissed her tenderly on the forehead, whispering something calming to her. He tugged gently on hand, and they were out the door.

**;**

"Everyone's here."

Bronte surveyed the room. Everyone was indeed there. All the Cullens, the entire pack, and Austen.

She suddenly felt Legault didn't stand a chance. She smiled a bit.

Edward spoke up. "Alright, Bella, you're ready as the bait. Emmett and I will be close by with the others. Jacob, you guys will be posted farther back; no offense, but you guys do smell awfully strong."

Jacob shrugged apologetically, a mirthful smirk on his face.

"Well, if that's it, then let's get going."

Within a second the only Emily, Bronte, and Jacob were left in the small living room. She looked up at him, but avoided his eyes. She kissed him lightly on the lips, pulling away before he could respond.

"Just come back," she whispered. "Alive."

**;**

"Bronte!"

Bronte bolted upright, her breathing erratic and heart pounding. She had been sleeping on Emily's couch since late that afternoon, to be awoken by Alice's shrill shouting. It was dark, and well past midnight. She heard Alice call again. Bronte stumbled off the couch, running as quickly as she could to the front door. Alice met her halfway.

"Alice? What's happened? Where's Jacob?"

"Jacob is fine, he'll live. It's just a bite. We need to go."

"A bite," she asked incredulously. "Legault bit him?"

Alice sighed. "Don't worry, it's not some science fiction apocalyptic breed-mix, he's not going to die. He'll have a mark thought. We need to go."

"Where's Austen? Why isn't he here?"

"That's another story, one we have time for later. Bronte, _we need to go._" And with that, Alice was dragging Bronte by the arm outside the house. They were at the small porsche quickly, and she ushered Bronte inside, throwing glances over her shoulder. The car was speeding away almost instantly.

Bronte felt sick - mostly from the driving. They sped down the roads at impossible speeds, skidding and drifting around every bend. Bronte had a hand wrapped tightly around the passenger-side's hanging bar, and another hand over her mouth, just in case.

The other sick was from what Alice had said back at Emily's house. Something about Austen, and a story.

"Alice," she paused, swallowing whatever had been trying to escape her throat. "What's going on? What happened to Austen?"

Alice's face looked anxious, and her eyes darted from the road to her and back again. "We - we thought he was going to be alone. But he had friends with him." She forced a nervous laugh. "A lot of them. They ambushed us. I didn't even see them coming." She heard something about 'stupid mutts' muttered under her breath. "Edward called a retreat, but Austen didn't stop. He went straight for Legault. Jacob tried to grab him, but Legault got to him first. He's... he's dead, Bronte. Austen's dead."

Bronte's mouth went dry. She nearly fainted when the car came to a screeching halt. Jacob was in the road in front of them, blood oozing from his shoulder and down his torso, close to staining his cut-off jeans. She saw figures dart across the road and into the forest. One figure paused behind him, it was Edward. His face was... apologetic, as he looked at her in the car. He gave her a small nod, which she returned in sad understanding, before darting into the forest after the others.

Within a second, Alice had exited the car, exchanged a polite word with Jacob, and run into the woods.

Jacob took her place in the driver's seat. The tires squealed as they took off. His hands were tense on the steering wheel, the muscles in his forearms taught beneath his swarthy skin. He wasn't looking at her; he wouldn't look at her. Minutes went by; it felt like a goddamn year. The car was swamped in thick, uncomfortable silence, aside from the oddly soothing _whoosh_ of the road passing beneath them.

Her brother was dead. Again.

"Jacob, I -"

There was a furious _crash_ as something descended onto the car, shattering the windshield. She was only vaguely able to identify Legault's horrifying, contorted face as Jacob slammed on the brakes. The car swerved, spinning around itself. With each twirl, Bronte saw the tree line get closer and closer. She let out a hoarse scream, Jacob's name dying on her lips and the car collided with the trees.

She blacked out instantly.

She awoke only moments later, the remnants of her screams escaping in a rush of a breath. The seat next to her was empty, and there was no sign of Jacob. She reached for her seatbelt, cursing in frustration when her shaking hands fumbled. The belt released and didn't retract, instead slumping uselessly to the side. She tried to open the door, but found it was stuck. Her window had been shattered, and she saw that the car had hit a thick tree just behind her door.

She blinked when something dripped into her eye. She wiped it away, and noticed the red smear on her hand. She reached for her head, wincing, noting a superficial cut along her hairline. She managed to climb out of the front of the car, where the windshield had once been. She faltered on trembling, unsteady legs, and gazed out into the forest. There was a pale glow along the horizon behind her, morning was coming. A chill ran through her, and she crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing herself feebly. She tried to call out for help.

"Jacob? Jacob, where are you?" She let out a choked sob. "Jacob!"

"_Oui?_"

Her heart stopped.

She turned around to find Legault standing only meters away from her. He was bloody and haggard, his voice coming out as a rough croak. He advanced on her slowly, his gait crooked with a limp. He let out a coarse laugh.

"They are gone, _chérie._ It is just you and me now." Another raw chuckle. She was backing away with every step he took. Like a scene out of a horror film, Bronte tripped and fell backward, landing hard on her rear. She sucked in a pained breath, all the while scrambling backwards, desperate to keep the space between them.

She was crying now, her tears mixing with the blood on her face. He was so close. He was bending over with his hand out, as if calling to a lost, stray dog.

"You are mine now, pet."

A growl erupted from the forest. Jacob leapt out in wolf form, catching Legault and bringing him along through the air. They landed on the road, tumbling a few meters before Jacob pounced again, mauling the vampire.

Bronte made out the odd shapes of body parts flying through the air before she fainted by the car.

**;**

When Bronte awoke, she was in a large, ornate bed with a large canopy and dated bedding. Her hands drifted to her head; there were stitches on her forehead, along with gauze wrapped lightly around her palms. She was at the Cullen's, Carlisle must have patched her up. She winced. Still tender, she must not have been out that long.

She ventured downstairs, only to find no one was home. It unnerved her, that and the unnatural cleanliness of the house. There was a notecard on top of the grand piano, propped up against a vase of healthy lilies. It clean, neat script, Alice's handwriting read _'everyone is okay.'_ She sighed with relief.

Pale yellow light filtered in from the large glass door of the back porch, creeping up the walls and across the floor. It touched her face as she stepped forward, warming her. If she hadn't remembered she was supposed to be grieving, she might have smiled.

She eased onto the back porch, closing the sliding glass door with a light _clink._ She gazed at the large, open field, surrounded by vast forests. There wasn't a soul in sight. A breeze picked up, and Bronte burrowed in her thick sweater, bringing her hands under her chin. "Jacob?" she tried, in a small voice that seemed to lose itself on the wind.

She heard a faint rustling in the distance. Fear swelled in her for a moment, as she remembered Legault's broken, craggy form advancing on her. She breathing eased as she spied a large wolf emerging from the tree line, its russet fur shining liquid copper in the early morning sun.

Jacob paused at the porch to phase, and Bronte still blushed and averted her eyes at his nudity. He put his clothes on; he had actually opted for a shirt this time - white, her favorite color on him. The contrast to dark skin in combination with the sunlight radiating behind him made him seem heavenly. He approached her slowly.

"Hey." His voice rumbled through her pleasantly.

"Hey," she whispered back, struggling to find her own voice.

He brought his large hands up to her shoulders, rubbing them soothingly. "Bronte, I'm sorry. I should have stopped him, I should have been able to-"

"That's the second time he's died on me," she interrupted, her voice stern, if not still weak. "Don't you ever do that to me, Jacob. Don't you ever fucking die on me, or I'll kill you myself."

He pulled her close, hugging her to him, and she felt more than heard the chuckle that resonated in his chest. His body and arms were warm, and his embrace lulled her into a deep sense of security. The sun shone on her face from over the treetops as she looked over the lush field, and she smiled for the first time. She thought about the life she had been living before Forks, before Jacob. True, she still needed to pay her taxes, but now that she had Jacob - along with several other supernatural beings - she doubted she would ever be satisfied with her old, mundane existence. But that didn't matter, she _had_ Jacob. And now, she had a home among friends.

He hadn't said anything, but his silence was all the reassurance she needed.

"Thank you, Jacob."

**FIN**

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Thank you all so much for reading, and all your patience! Please have a care and review. I hope you all enjoyed.


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